


No Gods Or Kings

by DisConsulate



Category: BioShock, Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Guys this is BioShock what are you honestly expecting, Multi, References to Suicide, This is not humanstuck because that's dumb, This is not primarily romance although there will probably be some of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 107,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisConsulate/pseuds/DisConsulate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1959, and a turbulent one for Rapture.  Splicing has gotten out of control, and smugglers threaten to expose the city to the ravages of the surface.  Lies and deceit are the order of the day, and a mysterious revolutionary threatens to throw everything into chaos.  All is not well in utopia.</p><p>A hard-boiled detective, a sassy, intelligent reporter, and an embittered mutant troll, accompanied by a blind singer, rush to unravel the secrets hiding in the depths of the city as the clock ticks down to New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A City On The Ocean Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an empty theater, a projector starts up, beam cutting the dusty air as the film reel turns. Damp seats are largely unoccupied, but for one or two ceramic statues, finely dressed masqued figures in vain postures. Sitting on the projector, a green doll: smooth head, gentle smile despite sharp teeth, a lovely felt suit and tailcoat, and neon green cheeks. Standing nearby, a man, tailored suit, slicked back hair, AudioVox in hand. He speaks into the AudioVox.
> 
> "3...2...1...Show time."

Sometimes the only lights that permeate the dark of the Drop are the neon lamps blazing through the cold, black ocean, ‘Draconian Deluxe,’ gaudy and golden, a screaming reminder that here was a place where even the garbage would turn up its nose at the refuse who had no other alternative but to call it home.

Rapture.

The Drop is as far down as anyone could sink and still draw breath, and abandoned worker town that the city somehow paved over and forgot about. Folks don’t come down unless they fell on hard times, the kind of hard times where they’re lucky if they see a dime as much as a dollar, and anyone with two pennies to rub together is considered king. Leastways, until those two pennies up and spent themselves, one way or another.

It's no place to be making a living.

And it’s here our story’s hero finds himself, hands shoved into the tatty pockets of the only other stitch of clothing he has left, nubby yellow horns poking out from under a flat cap. Karkat Vantas. Eternally scowling, first at a world that shunned him for what he was, then at a city that shunned him for what he couldn’t be, and now finally at the only place he has left. He has more right to be angry than most, been down in the Drop longer than many, barely keeping together the determination to scrape by, let alone attempt to remedy his current predicament.

But it’s December 1959, and his luck’s about to change. One way or another.

 

***

 

Now, the Megido Sister Act was the hottest show in town until one day a crazed yellow-blood hopped up more on ADAM than alcohol blew the stage apart mid-performance with a heavy-grade blast of Incinerate! before putting a pistol to his head and smearing his thinkpan across the wall opposite. Aradia, famed beauty and sponsor of the Eternal Flame crematorium, was killed instantly while her sister, Damara, was offstage for a quick-change. The public outcry was quickly stifled when evidence came to light of the late Megido’s ties to the smuggling underworld, after which Damara left the public life and locked herself up in her Mercury Suites apartment, simply saying, “You’ll see! Come New Year’s your whole wretched city will be falling down around your ears!”

She continued to sing, sending her records to her producer via pneumo, and in exile her fame only grew. Hers was the loudest voice decrying the armed assault on Cherub Futuristics, and she wrote a number of songs criticizing the illustrious founder of Rapture and owner of its wealthiest and most powerful business.

No one has seen her walking the streets in over five years.

 

***

 

It’s late at night, and the 13th Muse is getting ready for last call. ‘Big Nep’ Leijon sits at the bar in her greasy overalls nursing her fifth 123 of the evening; not enough to forget a bad day, but enough to convince herself that she’s trying. She’s stained her hankie green, but isn’t interested otherwise in accepting favors from strangers.

“Rough night, miss?” a stranger asks her, handing her a new handkerchief and ordering a vodka.

“Miserable,” Nepeta frowns, wiping her eyes again with the crisp white cloth.

“Anything I can help wvith?” This garners an ironic laugh from Ms. Leijon.

“Listen, furiend,” she says, turning to look the stranger in the eyes. “Thanks for the hankie, but you can’t pawsibly help me, and I don’t need help from strangers.”

The stranger took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag before responding.

“Yeah, sure, swvat awvay my helping hand wvithout evwen thinking about it. Just like evwery other dame in this towvn.” He has a smooth baritone, the kind of voice one expects to hear crooning softly out of a radio about lost love and hard knocks. Nepeta snarls at his presumption.

“This is Rapture. Efurything here comes with a purrice tag, and pardon me if I’m not exactly in the mood.”

The radio behind the bar starts to play ‘Deep Blues,’ an old Rapture standard. The stranger’s brow furrows, wrinkling two distinctive scars over his right eye.

“Hey, barkeep, howv’s about changing the record?”

The barman shrugs, switching to a different station playing non-stop Rapture Reminders. Two of the bar’s patrons get up and leave, tossing their dollars down in disgust. The stranger grimaces, but doesn’t ask for the station to be changed again.

“It’s my daughter,” Nepeta says quietly.

“She missing?” Nepeta nods. “Wvait, howv is that evwen possible?”

“I adopted her, obviously,” Nepeta spits back. “She’s the closest thing I have to a family, and meow she’s gone.”

“You just don’t let up with the cat puns, do you?”

“Furget it.”

The stranger makes to protest, but then reconsiders it, simply taking another drag on his cigarette. The cloud of smoke hangs sullenly in the air, curling around only on the breaths of the bar’s occupants. The electric lamps behind the bar are the brightest sources of light in the room, which is dark except for what light from the city filters in through the windows.

“Sometimes,” the stranger says. “You just havwe to havwe a little faith. Evwen in a place like Rapture. You think it was built by people wvho felt sorry for themselvwes?”

The stranger drops a couple of bills on the bar, putting out his cigarette and reaching for another one. Nepeta finishes her 123 and orders another one, refusing to acknowledge that she’s been spoken to.

“She’ll turn up,” the stranger says. “Wvhatevwer her name is.”

“Meulin.”

“Meulin. Nice name. She’ll turn up, one wvay or another.”

The stranger leaves, walking out the door and into the harsh glare of the city.

 

***

 

On the surface, Rose Lalonde had been an award-winning novelist, but down at the bottom of the sea people paid more for sensational gossip rags than they did for deep, sweeping narratives, and so Ms. Lalonde put down the pen and took up the audio recorder. She tells herself it’s just a holdover until she can secure the savings to afford the time to devote to serious writing, but whether this pans out is still beyond her ability to see.

She sits in a bathysphere dictating to her personal recorder. Outside, fish dart about the porthole as neon signs flash past.

“What a waste of time. The only benefit I could possibly have gleaned from that interview is that Serket is dishonest in the extreme. One could see it in her eye plain as daylight: not a single thing she said could be construed as the truth, but taken as a whole I suppose I can see why people think it’s plausible she had no involvement with the Megido murder. She has a disturbing tendency to place herself outside the sight of, well, just about anyone that could indict her. It’s practically common knowledge that she’s a smuggler, but numerous raids of her operations have turned up plenty of arrests with no concrete evidence linking them back to her. It’s almost as if she’s gaming the system,” Rose allows herself an amused snort. “Insofar as Rapture can be said to have a system. That’s always been the problem: with no structures of any kind, any law is by definition unenforceable, meaning that this entire case is just one long expensive exercise in futility. Well, I guess I still have something to sell to Rapture Chic. Cerulean is in this season.”

The bathysphere arrives at Apollo Square, where Rose disembarks. Rising to the streets, she turns and looks back at the square, the center of which is dominated by a tall, golden statue of the founder. Rose has always found it to be a rather gaudy display, and turns her back on it. She is returning home.

She stops by a newsvendor on her way to pick up today’s Tribune. December 1, 1959, Cherub Futuristics Nationalized. Rose ignores the headline and turns to the Opinion section.

_Failures of Freedom_

_-Porrim Maryam_

_As sho+uld have beco+me apparent to anyo+ne with a wo+rking thinkpan, Rapture is no+t the shining uto+pia we were led to+ believe. The plight o+f the wo+rking class girl is wo+rse to+day than it has ever been in the sho+rt histo+ry o+f this so+ggy bucket, to+ say no+thing o+f the recent, o+pressive excesses o+f o+ur dear fo+under. Ever since the no+-do+ubt embarrassing display o+f “o+pen disco+urse” that was last mo+nth’s debate o+ver religio+us freedo+m (let me spare yo+u so+me time lo+o+king it up in the tablo+ids: there isn’t any), we have seen no+thing but arrant disrespect to+ward the co+mmo+n public fro+m the o+ffice of Jo+hn Egbert._

Rose closes the paper. She’s read enough of Maryam’s vitriol to last her a good few days at least. Rose passes through the central court of Artemis Suites, stopping only to toss a few quarters into the hat of a street mime sitting at the foot of the metal stairs leading up to the apartments. She sees him here every day, and knows that he sleeps in the boiler room, when he can slip in there unnoticed. He is tall for a troll, with a mass of unruly curls around the base of his goat-like prongs, and has an assortment of puppets scattered about his feet. He never speaks, and never seems to take any sort of break from his performance. If Rose had more time, she would stick around and watch his antics—he has a big blue puppet with glasses that represents the founder, and a big green puppet with gold teeth and red eyes that obviously represents the late owner of Cherub Futuristics, and he’s banging them together incessantly—but she has a story to draft, and then a dinner date at the El Dorado.

 

***

 

Professor Jade Harley and Sir Jake English, respectively the city’s foremost authority on horticulture and former member of peerage whose safaris and adventures provide the majority of exhibits in any museum in the city, often dine together at the tea garden.

“I must say, Professor, the acanthuses are blooming marvelously.”

“Thanks, Jake! And you don’t have to call me ‘professor’ all the time. Just Jade works.”

Jake laughs roguishly, not having touched his tea or dinner. Jade notes this.

“What’s wrong, Jake?”

“Well, truth be told,” Jake begins. “Confound it, Jade, you’re always so busy with work! You tend to the gardens here, and you’re involved with cutting-edge research with plant modifications, and I listen to you talk and can’t help but feel I’m just an old washed-up adventurer whose only purpose left is to cater to museum pieces.”

“Oh no, Jake, you’re not useless! You still go on all sorts of undersea expeditions, don’t you?”

“Exploring volcanic vents only goes so far, and Egbert Industries isn’t paying me to survey any more. My entire submersible fleet has been mothballed!”

Jade puts a sympathetic hand on her friend’s arm, which seems to bring him some comfort. He smiles at her and takes a sip of tea, which is cold. Jade giggles at the face he makes.

“Well, Sir English,” she says. “This is Rapture. If you can’t find work, then you just aren’t trying hard enough!”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“We’re at the bottom of the ocean. Someone’s always going to need a submarine, even if it’s for something seemingly boring like fixing a pipeline. You’ve been relying too much on one man for all your work opportunities.”

Jake perks up more at this, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“You know what, Jade? You’re right. I’ve been getting darned complacent, relying on handouts from John for far too long. It’s about time I struck out on my own.”

“Yeah!”

Jake stands up and strikes a pose.

“I’ll recommission the fleet! Start up my own company! The next time you see me, I’ll be a whole new man!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Ah, but I suppose I should finish this delightful lunch first.”

The two laugh. Afterwards, Jake calls up his old ship captain to put his new plans into motion. It’s December 1959, and Jake English feels his luck is about to change.

 

***

 

_Audio Diary of John Egbert, December 1, 1959_

_  
__This facility belongs to the city now, to Egbert Industries, at least until the rioting subsides.  I don't like that such measures had to be taken, though I admit I'll be happy when this place is gone.  Caliborn is gone, Vantas is gone, or close enough.  I am alone at last.  Alone with my city._

_  
_A tired man stands at the window of the Cherub Futuristics station of the Atlantic Express, sad blue eyes staring through the murky sea across a once-blooming coral garden at the Cherub Futuristics building.  The neon sign remains lit, but that is the only hint of its presence out there, beyond the edge of the city.  John removes his glasses and drops the AudioVox on the ground, pinching the bridge of his nose with his now-free hand.  Behind him, overseeing the cleanup of the station, stands his assistant, a Prussian Dignitary during the war.  John finds his diligence and lack of ambition a welcome relief, and doesn't move from his vigil until the Dignitary addresses him.

"Sir, you've dropped your audio recorder."

"Yeah.  Leave it."

"It's not like you to leave potentially valuable equipment lying around."

"We're closing this station anyway.  It's not like someone's going to find it."

"Suit yourself."

John knows the Dignitary wants to say more, or is at least thinking along the lines that he's being idiotic.  It seems, John considers, to be a thing that people leave these recording devices lying around after one or two uses, in much the same way that trolls like to sleep in piles, or humans have parents.  The Dignitary's concerns may be valid, but only because he keeps track of the people who listen to the recordings before disposing of them.  John wouldn't have gotten to where he is without someone like the Dignitary to clean up after him.

John puts his glasses back on and picks up his fedora where he had set it down earlier.  There are times he wishes he had followed his dreams to become a professional comedian, rather than follow in his father's more serious line of business.  He's sure his father would be proud of how far his son has gone.  But the things he's had to do lately still make him uneasy.

"I'm returning to Hephaestus," John says.  "I'll want a full report when you're through here."

_Personal Diary of John Egbert, December 1, 1959_

_When I was a kid, I used to hate clowns, and think that practical jokes were the most important thing in the world.  Lately, I've been envying my past self.  I know my father would probably congratulate me on how successful I've become, but I don't think he'd be proud of some of the things I've had to do.  I'm not proud of them.  But this last thing I've done marks the end of it.  I won't have to arrest anyone else, or nationalize any more businesses, or make more people...disappear...  One way or another.  In a month this will all be behind me.  
_

 


	2. Rise, Rapture, Rise

“Oh, Ms. Peixes, how marvelous!”

 

The ballroom of Athena’s Glory is a richly decorated room, furnished with red velvet settees, crystal chandeliers and twenty-foot frescoes depicting mythological scenes of ancient gods.  White chessmen bustle among the guests with trays of wine, pictures of humble servility among the city elite, preeminent of which is Feferi Peixes, Rapture’s second wealthiest citizen, and the wealthiest woman on the planet.  In her youth, she was a champion swimmer, and heiress to a fantastic fortune.  As she grew older, however, her excitable disposition cooled, and she devoted much of her life helping the less fortunate through a corporate entity she called the Beforan Foundation. 

 

“I’m absolutely KRILL-ED about Meenah’s debut!  Simply everyone is going to be there.  I’ve pulled out all the stops.  The band was handpicked personally for the occasion, and I even managed to wrangle John into giving a speech.  He’s using it as the clamination of some shoret of publicity campaign, but the important thing is that no expense has been spared.”

 

“Where is Meenah?  I have’t seen her since her little episode at the Kashmir.”

 

There is some amused murmuring among Feferi’s retinue, which she waves off with a broad smile.

 

“She’s in her room.  She hasn’t been feeling reel swell, so she’s resting.”

 

“She’s probably just nervous about being named heir to your entire estate.  I know I would have a hard time handling all that responsibility.”

 

Feferi laughs, and the conversation switches topics.  On the dance floor, ladies bedecked in dazzling gowns dance with gentlemen in fine suits, a whirling display of gaiety and glamour.  The gossip flies back and forth over who’s bought dresses from which boutique, who’s having affairs with whom, who’s lost face in the recent political drama that’s rocked the city.

 

“Personally, I wouldn’t be seen in public with that Dr. Lalonde.  Always consorting with the chessmen, and who knows who else?  It’s a disgrace for a woman of her position!”

 

“She’s just some drunken lush who stumbled her way into fame.  I think we can be assured her time in the spotlight is done.”

 

No one pays any mind to the porters in the corner of the room, ever vigilant of the mood of the dancers, but taking advantage of a temporary lull in the festivities to exchange a few rumors of their own.

 

“You up for seeing a few rounds of fiduspawn after this is over?”

  
“Can’t.  I’ve got a shift at the White Queen after this.”

  
“How?  You must be exhausted half to death already.”

 

“Anyway, I can’t stand the goons that hang around Nitram’s.  I swear, if they’re not in Mindfang’s gang, they’re Midnight Crew, or worse.  I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side.”

 

“You worry too much.  Sure, you get shady types down at the Fighting Nitram’s, but the owner’s a pretty standup troll.  There’s nothing goes down on his watch, you mark me.”

 

“Some other time.”

 

The band plays on, and Feferi finds herself drawn aside by an old acquaintance.  He’s dressed in an admiral’s uniform that’s been highly decorated, wavy horns pointing upright over hair that has been slicked back.  Although he wears glasses, he doesn’t need them—a few treatments at Dr. Lalonde’s clinic saw to that.

 

“Admiral Ampora, such a pleasure,” Feferi says coolly.

 

“It’s just captain noww, Fef, and I wwish you’d stop wwith the teasin.”

 

Feferi giggles as the two walk over to one of the windows overlooking the city.  While hardly the penthouse, the ballroom does afford a vantage of the downtown.  Spotlights cut through the blackness to light up the jungle of billboards around Fleet Hall, and on an especially clear day, it’s even possible to see the carousal at Dionysus.

 

“Old halibuts, captain,” Feferi says.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

 

“I got a call from English yesterday.  He wwants to restart the fleet.”

 

“That’s –EXC–ELL–ENT,” Feferi exclaims.  “Retirement never suited you.”

 

“Wwell, that’s the thing.  English isn’t good for it.  He’s a dandy wwho can’t keep money from slippin through his fingers.  And since wwhen am I retired?  I run a respectable fishery, thank you vvery much.”

 

“Soooo, loan English some of your money.  Shorely you have enough between the two of you that you don’t have to come trawling to me for a loan.”

 

“Wwoww, Fef, wway to completely misinterpret the meanin of my decidin to come and sea you.”

 

“Well, sorry if you were the one starting off the conversation by talking about your financial troubles.”

 

“They’re not my financial troubles, I’m just makin convversation wwith my good friend.  I don’t alwways havve ulterior motivves wwhen wwe talk, you knoww.  Maybe tonight I decided I just wwanted to spend a feww pleasant hours wwith you, and wwasn’t evven thinkin of askin you for favvors.”

 

“Cod!  Sorry!  Way to go and kill my good mood, Ampora,” Feferi says, rubbing at her temple, nails immaculately pink.

 

“Wwell, I didn’t mean to.  I just, I mean, you look good tonight.”

 

“NOT actually kelping.”

 

“Wwhat do you wwant from me?  I apologized and evven complimented you.  Wwhat more does a guy gotta do to be treated wwith a little respect in this towwn?”

 

“For starters, you didn’t apologize, and second of all, you’re the one who snaps at me, and then I’m supposed to be the bad guy?  You’ve got some nerve.”

 

“Wwhatevver.  I just sometimes wwish wwe could go back to the days wwhen wwe could talk for twwo minutes wwithout bickerin.”

 

“I suppose.  But that was a very long tide ago.”

 

“Wwell, truth be told, I did kinda come dowwn here because I knew you’d be immigratin and all.  And, wwell, us seadwwellers havve to stick together.”

 

“Oh, Eridan.  You know you’re far too late for any flushed advances.”

 

“Wwell, so much for my peace offerin.  I’m still invvited to the debut, though, right?”

 

“Of course!  When I say everyone’s going to be there, I mean –EV–ERYON–E.  –Even a washed up sailor like you.”

 

 

***

 

 

The port of Neptune’s Bounty isn’t exactly what you’d expect.  Rapture, being closed to the surface, doesn’t have much cause to expect trade from the outside world; so much of what goes on in port Neptune revolves around fishing.  The stink of fish permeates every soggy floorboard, hovers around every loading dock, every freezer, every packing plant.  The docks themselves form an expansive maze at the edge of the city of submarine wharfs and fisheries of every stripe. 

 

Now, as with any district of Rapture, you can’t get far in Neptune without knowing who the real players are, and Neptune’s more crowded than most.  Inspector Jane Crocker has been walking this beat for months working on the Serket case, but as of today she’s got one lead that hasn’t turned up diddlysquat and a long list of dead ends.  She’s known to be a private eye, one of the finest in the Big Apple before things went sour, and corruption became the law of the land.

 

“Well, Jane, you can’t fight corruption if there’s no law to corrupt,” she sighs to herself, flipping through her casebook looking for any clues she might’ve missed.  She stands on the wharf off the old Cherub Fisheries, trench coat and fedora damp with the eternal fog that hovers around the place.  Nearby are two of Egbert’s flunkies, thugs by the name of Hearts Boxcar and Spades Slick.  Jane’s no dizzy twist that can be pushed around by a bit of muscle, which is just as well because these two are being exceptionally unhelpful.

 

“You listen here, you dumb broad, this investigation is being taken over by Egbert Industries, so you can take your little notepad and dime store detective outfit out of here,” says Slick, a little snarl in his voice.  He doesn’t have the patience to manage dames on top of his other duties.

 

“Mr. Egbert hired me personally to handle this investigation, and by golly I do not intend to quit my inquiries until I am dismissed by him personally,” Jane says, crossing her arms and examining the fishery sign.

 

“Listen, I’m sure your big brother thinks you're a fine sleuth, but the fact remains is that this ain’t your case anymore.  You’ve been out here, what, six months, and you’ve turned up nothin’.  John wants some fresh flat foots on the ground, and that’s me and my crew, and guess what sister: we don’t share crime scenes.”

 

“No, I don’t expect you do, Mr. Slick,” Jane says, rounding on him.  “I know all about your little Midnight Crew, and believe you me if I had half a mind I could dig up a mountain of dirt on you and your boys, so don’t push your luck!”

 

Slick narrows his eyes at her, stalking forward so that she has to step back to the edge of the wharf.  Jane tries to keep the panic out of her eyes, but it’s not working by the satisfied undercurrents of Slick’s menacing presence.

 

“That’s pretty big talk coming from a small-time private eye, don’t you think?  Pretty dangerous to be throwing that kind of weight around in a delicate operation such as this.  We can’t really afford to mess around with the Serket case, or we might end up like old Clubs.  What happened to old Clubs Deuce, Boxcars?”

 

“Drowned in a chum vat.”

 

“It’d be a shame to have to fish out a dame such as yourself from one of those cesspools.  And I doubt you’d look half as pretty.”

 

Jane swallows, pushing back against Slick to allow herself room to regain her balance.

  
“Is that a threat, Mr. Slick?”

 

“I wouldn’t mistake me for a nice person, Ms. Crocker.  So why don’t you tell me the name of your lead, and run back home and bake yourself a nice cake.”

 

Jane knows when to back down, and after giving Slick the name of her informer, she retreats to the relative safety of the Fighting Nitrams.  Sliding up to the bar, she orders a gin that she huddles over whilst covertly observing the bar’s patrons.  The bartender notices.

 

“Hey doll…you expecting company?”

 

“Not tonight, Rufioh.  I just returned from the old Cherub Fisheries, actually, and was looking for a quiet drink.”

 

“Oh right…I guess you’re still on the Serket case.  Any new leads?”

 

“No, and I just handed over the only one I had to the Midnight Crew of all people.”

 

“That’s pretty rough.  Those guys are bad news all around…I wouldn’t mess with them if I were you.”

 

“How’s Tavros?”

 

“Nice of you to ask…Well, he hasn’t been doing so well, ever since Dr. Vantas up and disappeared…He was pretty messed up by it, said he didn’t think he’d ever have the confidence to write another poem.”

 

Jane nods, and takes a sip from her drink.  Rufioh’s wings droop a little as he thinks about his blood relative’s plight, but Jane can’t really do more than sympathize.

 

“Rufioh, you know everyone around this part of town, right?”

 

“Well…I wouldn’t say everyone…I sure know a lot of people, though…Mostly anyone who comes to the bar.”

 

“Do you know anyone named Terezi Pyrope?”

 

“Hm…Oh yeah, I know that doll!  Girl comes around here every so often with a couple of suits from Serket’s place…I guess talking business…”

 

“If you see her around, tell her the Midnight Crew’s looking for her.  I’m going to be doing my own sleuthing, but I’d rather get to her before they do, and I figure you might see her sometime.”

 

“Sure thing, doll…I guess I just tell her to keep it on the sly for a while, until things cool off…You want I should tell her you’re looking for her?”

 

Jane shakes her head.  From the back room, a loud cheer erupts, no doubt marking the stunning finish of another fiduspawn match.

 

“Aw man, wish I could’ve seen that…Sounds like a doozy…”

 

“Thanks for the drink.  You can tell me if you see her, but I want to talk to her, not scare her off.  It’s funny, but I can’t find anyone who seems to know where she lives.”

 

“Yeah, that’s strange…Take care, doll…I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

 

“Thanks, Rufioh.”

 

Jane tips the troll and turns to leave.  A pair of trolls play billiards under a dim light that shrouds the tables along the wall in darkness.  Even the light of the city through the windows fails to penetrate the inkiness that seems to be in every corner Jane looks.  A flare catches her eye—there, in the corner, a woman has lit a cigarette, and Jane can tell from the fading glow of the lighter that the woman was watching her behind her horn-rimmed glasses.  Jane walks over, not in the mood for any mind games.

 

“Is there something I can help you with?”

 

“W3LL, TH4T R3M41NS TO B3 S33N.”

 

“Can the wisecracks, lady,” Jane says.  “What do you want?”

 

The woman shrugs, or at least it looks like she does from the way her cigarette trails smoke through the air.  Jane scowls and walks away, out into the streets.  She has one last stop to make before she can go home, and so makes her way to the Fleet Postal building, where she throws the desk clerk a few dollars to use the telephone.

 

“This is Rose,” says the voice on the other end, smooth as silk.

 

“This is Jane.”

 

“Good evening, Inspector.  I wasn’t expecting to hear back from you so soon.”

 

“I have something for you, but you’ll have to be discreet about getting it.”

 

“Oh my, planning an illicit rendezvous, are we?  Should I wear my lavender domino?”

 

“Enough with the horseshit,” Jane says, gritting her teeth.

 

“This must be big if you’ve lost your sense of humor.”

 

“It’s big enough that we have to meet in person. I can’t just mail you the information; it might be intercepted.  Meet me at the usual spot, and please just leave the domino at home.”

  
“I’m hurt, Jane, I thought you loved the domino.  It matched your beaglepuss stunningly.  Oh, but that’s right, you wanted discretion.  When should I expect to meet you?”

 

“Let’s say an hour from now.”

 

“Done.  I’ll see you.”

 

The usual spot is an old Chinese antique shop off the fish market, the proprietors of which Jane is on good terms with, through a long and convoluted string of favors and deals.  Jane dallies outside, looking at stained paper lamps and good luck charms.  Finally she hurries inside, nodding to the owner and ascending the stairs to a single room she leased a few years back when it became apparent that a woman in her line of work might sometimes need a place to lie low.

 

Rose has already been sitting in an armchair by the window overlooking the market for some time.

 

“Hello, Jane.”

 

“Goodness, Rose!  How did you get here so quickly?  You live half-way across the city!”

 

“I have my ways,” Rose says, smiling smugly.  “And I believe you have some information that you were interested in selling to me.”

 

Jane nods, taking off her hat and coat to hang on a hook by the door next to Rose’s things.  She pauses for a moment to examine the bookshelves set into the wall by the door before turning to her guest.

 

“Sollux Captor.”

 

Rose raises an eyebrow.

 

“That’s the name of your killer,” Jane continues.  “I didn’t find out much, only that he was with a clan of yellow-blooded trolls one layoff away from the Drop.”

 

“Poetic.  Could you be a bit more specific with regards to their location?”

 

“You know the old Mason’s Quarter?  They’ve got an attic somewhere down there, and that’s as close as I could get.  Some of them were supporters of that Dr. Vantas.”

 

“Charming.  Thank you,” Rose says, searching through her pocketbook for her money.  “Is this going to cost me your usual fee?”

 

Jane nods.  Rose takes out a few bills and lays them on the side table.  Closing her pocketbook, she leans back in her seat.

 

“Any luck on the Serket case?”

 

“No,” Jane says bitterly.  “And it seems our dear founder John’s put his Midnight Crew boys on the case, which is making it doubly difficult for me to find out anything.”

 

“I know there’s a link between the Megido murder and Serket’s smuggling operation,” Rose said.  “The signs are there plain as day.”

 

“Well I haven’t discovered anything,” Jane says.  Rose nods, standing up to gather her things.

 

“You know where to find me when you do,” she says, taking her leave.  Jane closes the door, setting the deadbolt before collapsing on the chair, exhausted.  She takes her casebook out and flips through it, trying to think of something she might’ve missed.

 

_In Neptune’s Bounty, there are three outfits that really matter: Ampora Whaling, Cherub Fisheries, and Serket Seafood & Treasures.  Cherub Fisheries is subsidiary to Cherub Futuristics, which is known to have employed smugglers and gangsters, but which isn’t a player anymore._

_Leads: Caliborn – Cherub Futuristics CEO and founder, rumored to routinely terrorize and intimidate his employees, employs an outfit known as ‘The Felt’.  Deceased._

_Vriska Serket – Serket Seafood & Treasures CEO and founder, rumored to be an incredibly shrewd investor, had a large stock in Cherub that she sold off wholesale before the shootout.  Impossible to get hold of.  Dead end._

_Aranea Serket – Serket Seafood & Treasures PR.  Untrustworthy._

_Terezi Pyrope – Unknown, but rumored to regularly meet with Serket brass._

***

 

 

If there’s one place in all the Drop worth going to on purpose, it’s the Limbo Room.  Here, the air smells of smoke and seawater, but is filled with the music and soul of everybody unfortunate enough to fall on the wayside.  Best liquor they have is distilled in the steam tunnels, and is more likely to make the drinker blind than ease their troubles for a few hours.  Them as can make do, and them as can’t don’t give a damn either way.  But nobody comes to the Limbo Room for the spirits—the come for the soul, for the singers up on the stage telling them what they already know about how it’s really like to live in this town.

 

Rapture.

 

Now, every troll in Rapture has a clan, some group that shares common genetics and ancestry, which is maybe why our hero Karkat is down here in the Drop, alone, instead of somewhere with a bed that has clean sheets.  The Vantas clan was never large, and of that small number only two decided it was worth their while to take the plunge when the call went out.

 

But back to the Limbo Room.

 

Karkat sits at a booth, staring down at the swill in his filthy glass regretting.  He does that a lot these days, and no one blames him.

 

“That fucker.”

 

Karkat is about to drain the cup when the next act comes on.  A blond human with a pair of cheaters gets up on stage, nodding once to the band when he’s situated.  Then he sings.  A song Karkat recognizes, goes by the title _Brother, Can You Spare A Dime_.  It’s another song of loss and futility, of great men brought low by fate, and Karkat can’t stand to listen to it.  But he stays in his seat, because where else can he go?

 

The human finishes the song, and then sings an encore, something Karkat doesn’t recognize, but as he gets offstage Karkat flags him down.  The human doesn’t respond, and Karkat thinks at first he didn’t see him, but he makes his way casually over, dropping onto the bench opposite.

 

“Howdy,” the human says.

 

“That song,” Karkat begins.

 

“Definitely ripped it off of Bing Crosby before you ask.”

 

“I was going to say it was well done, and the lyrics really spoke to me, but fine I can go ahead and not compliment you on a job well done, since it’s the best I can do having a startling inability to throw money at your face hard enough to crack those stupid glasses and call it a day.”

 

“Easy there, no need to get all hands on about my person.  And it looks like you’ve got enough to drink deep of the fine ambrosia they serve at the bar.”

 

“This gross swill cost me the last of my money, fuck you very much.”

 

“Language check.  And if you’re not going to finish that, can you lend a brother a hand?”

 

Karkat slides the glass across the table, disgust etched in every line on his face.  The human knocks it back in one smooth motion, barely disguising his own grimace.  Setting the glass upside down on the table, he folds his hands in front of him.

 

“That hits the spot with a sledgehammer.”

 

“How can you drink that stuff?  It literally makes people go blind.”

 

“I know,” the human says, tipping his cheaters forward to reveal a pair of red eyes with milky pupils.  “Figure I save up enough to get a fancy ADAM treatment, before you can say Bob’s your uncle problem solved.”

 

“You’ve got to be shitting me!  You willfully drink this putrescent garbage, have actually gone partially if not completely blind, and you expect to be able to make any amount of money down here?  Are you so bafflingly, mind-numbingly retarded that you’ve forgotten that you’re in the Drop?”

 

Karkat considers that his companion may in fact be just that, if only because of the drink.

 

“I haven’t forgotten,” the human says.  “And I can see you well enough from here.”

 

He stands up at that moment and looks around, trying to locate the exit.

 

“Hey, I took your last drink, but I have some better stuff back at my place if you want to help a partially-handicapped brother out.”

 

“Listen fucker, I am not fucking interested—.”

 

“Man, I just need some help getting out of here.  Nothing weird, okay?”

 

Karkat begrudgingly gets up and escorts the human out of the Limbo Room, tempted by the promise of drink and spurred by his lack of better options.  The human lives in an honest to god room, in the upstairs of the pawn shop, and does in fact produce a mostly-empty bottle of Old Tom Whisky.  Karkat whistles when he sees it.

 

“You weren’t lying.”

 

“No of course not.  Who have you been talking to about me?  I don’t lie, that shit’s not copasetic.”

 

“Asshole, I don’t even know your name, much less devote any time to stooping any lower to hear the low whine of the rumor mill around this place.”

 

“Shame.  You could learn a lot.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Dave Strider, at your service,” the human offers a hand, which Karkat shakes before accepting the bottle of whisky.

 

“Karkat.”

 

“Got a surname to go with that?”

 

“None of your fucking business.”

 

Karkat takes a swig of the whisky, which burns satisfyingly on the way down.  Dave takes the bottle back and kills it, throwing it against the wall where it shatters.  Karkat jumps, snarling at Dave when a few shards hit him.

 

“Watch where you’re throwing things, fuckwipe!”

 

“Well I would, but then what would be the point in being partially blind?”

 

“Don’t just fall back on that like it’s an excuse!  You knew exactly where I was, you could’ve easily, oh, I don’t know, thrown it in an entirely different direction, or, hang on, this might sound crazy, just not thrown the fucking bottle!  You can’t even sell it now!  It’s completely fucking useless!  Is this how you ended up down here, by being a skullcrushingly dimwitted wastrel?”

 

“Nah.  I just sang a bunch of controversial shit and had to get out of Dodge for a bit.”

 

“So, what, this is like some kind of vacation for you?”

 

“If you want to look at it that way, more or less.  What about you?  How long are you here for?”

 

Karkat’s anger dissipated, and he slumped back against the wall.

 

“Fuck, I don’t know.  I’ve been here a few years already.”

 

Dave’s eyebrows shoot up at that.  He leans forward a little, disbelief etched in the line of his mouth.

 

“No shit.”

 

“No shit.  I just…I followed a friend down here, thinking it would be my first real break, you know?  And then it turns out that all I did was make sure that when I inevitably fucking failed, that I at least had nowhere else to run to.”

 

Dave is silent for a bit while Karkat stares down at the floor.

 

“That’s awful, man.”

 

“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Karkat snaps.

 

“Hey,” Dave says after a bit.  “If you’ve got nowhere else to go, we can clean the glass up and you can have some floor space here.  I’m sure the super won’t give two fucks.”

 

“What did I just fucking tell you?  I don't want anyone’s pity, least of all a washed-up, wannabe singer.”

 

“A wash up who is offering you a place to sleep at night until you sort yourself out.  It’s called being a decent person and helping out someone.  No pity necessary.”

 

Karkat opens his mouth, a little in disbelief.

 

“Alright.  I guess.  Thank you.”

 

“There, was that so hard?”

 

Karkat snarls a bit more, but helps clean up the mess and clear a space on the floor.  The pawn shop is full of junk even up here, so Karkat is able to fashion himself a pile of a sorts that is at least more comfortable than the bare floorboards.  Dave sleeps on a grubby mattress in the corner, next to which is a leather-bound book and a sword that looks ancient.  Karkat is tempted to reach over and touch it, but decides his curiosity can wait.  He's tired, and this may be the first and last time in a while he gets to sleep inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still playing it by ear. Please excuse any consequent oddness.


	3. Wild Little Sisters

Dr. Roxy Lalonde, no relation to the famous novelist, leads a small gaggle of girls through the rolling hills of Arcadia.  One hand clasps a flask of vodka that she periodically takes a swig out of, and the other gently holds the hand of a small troll with little conical horns and an olive green smock.  Behind these two, a dozen or so other girls, assorted humans and trolls alike, skip along whimsically.

 

“Ms. Roxy, Ms. Roxy!  Look at the pretty butterfly!”

 

One of the girls tugs at Roxy’s dress, pointing excitedly at a monarch fluttering around a petunia patch.  Roxy bends over to examine it, other girls clustering around to have a look.  Their eyes emit a pale, dead glow.

 

“Ohmygosh girls, would you look at this!  It’s a female _Danaus plexippipipu…plexissupps…_ shit.”

 

“Ms. Roxy made a swear!”

 

Roxy smiles indulgently at the green little troll to her right.

 

“That’s righght, Meulin.  And whassthe one thing Ms. Roixy always says about swears?”

 

“Swears are bad!” a chorus of little voices sings back.

 

“Swears sis babd, and you shlouldn’t use them.  But as I was saying, this fine specimen of _Nymphalidae_ is called a mornach butterly…monarch butterfly.  Nailed it!”

 

“Can we catch one, Ms. Roxy?”

 

“Can we?  Can we please?”

 

“Sure, kids, knock your socks off,” Roxy says, waving the children on as she looks around for a bench from which she might observe.  Meulin follows after her, unwilling to leave Roxy’s side as she stumbles a little on a stone.  As Roxy heaves a sigh, Meulin clambers up onto the bench, sitting in an identical slouch.  After a moment, Roxy side-eyes her suspiciously, a gesture that Meulin mimics back before patting Roxy on the arm.  She squeals and scrambles off the bench to peak at Roxy over the armrest.

 

“Oho, so it’s a game of tagalag…taggat..tag, is it?  Well, I’ll have yuo know, missy, that Roxy Lalonde has never lost!”

 

Roxy swiftly stands up and chases Meulin around the bench, the younger troll screaming with laughter as she dodges back and forth.  Meulin nimbly crawls under the bench, forcing Roxy to get down on her knees, tearing her stockings.  She prizes Meulin from her shelter and proceeds to tickle her, which causes Meulin to laugh, and then hiccup.  A thick, green fluid bubbles at the edge of her mouth.

 

“Oh, sweetie, you’ve splite…spilt…spit up.”

 

Roxy puts a hiccupping Meulin on the ground, retrieving a handkerchief to wipe up the sticky substance off the young troll’s face.  Meulin continues to hiccup as Roxy leads her back to the other girls, all chattering excitedly about the butterfly that they caught.

 

“Ms. Roxy, we caught one!”

 

One of the girls holds out the crushed and broken remains of a monarch butterfly.  Roxy accepts the butterfly, her previous mirth draining out of her face bit by bit.  She stands up and takes it over to a nearby pond where she drops the body into the water, ripples spreading out as fish come up to snap at the disturbance.

 

“Ms. Roxy, what’re those?”

 

“Those are a school of _Cyprinus Caprio_ … _Carpio._ ”

 

“Why’d you give them the butterfly?”

 

“Because…because the butterfly’s soul was taken by angels, and we had to use the body for something or it’d go to waste.”

 

“The angels took the butterfly?”  One of the girls asks, confused.

 

“Listen, girls, I’m mnot the person to be explaining these deep concerts to you.  Heh, concepts, my bad.  Let’s head back, alright?  Christ, I need a drink.”

 

Roxy shepherds the girls back to the path.  They keep talking about angels and butterflies while Roxy, Meulin in tow, leads them through the trees toward the metro station.  Roxy’s flask is empty, and she can feel a headache coming on if she doesn’t do something about it soon.  They pass by a babbling brook, and round the corner to the metro campus, which is a well-manicured field at the edge of the rolling hills.  Jade comes out of the labs, which adjoin the campus, and spies the group.

 

“Hi Roxy!”

 

“Jade!  How’s ervreything?”

 

Jade giggles, coming over with a bucket of gardening tools and a pair of thick gloves.

 

“Oh, I’m just off to do a little gardening in the grotto.  I’ve been working on a new strain of _Rosa Gallica_ , and I have to check on it a lot.  You’ve brought the girls with you today!”

 

“Just getting them out of the lab one last time, that’s all,” Roxy says.  “Before we go under new management.”

 

“Who’s this?  She’s a cutie,” Jade says, looking at Meulin hiding behind Roxy.  “Hi!  My name’s Professor Jade!”

 

“It’s alright, Profrosser Jade’s a friend,” Roxy says.  “Professor.  Goddammit.”

 

“Ms. Roxy did it again!” the girls cry out, pointing accusatory fingers at her.

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright, I apologize for my constraint profundity…constant proFANity.  Goodness.”

 

“I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink already,” Jade says.

 

“More like haven’t drunk enough yet,” Roxy says.  “This is Meulin.  She’s new.  Say hello, Meulin.”

 

Meulin looks at Jade with wide, blank eyes.  Jade’s smile becomes strained—it’s clear she finds the girl’s gaze off putting.  The troll looks down, fingers worrying at the hem of her smock, and gives the smallest of ‘hi’s.  Roxy nods with approval.

 

“There, now that wasn’t so bad,” she says, patting Meulin on the head gently. 

 

“Where did she come from?” Jade asks, more as an excuse to look away from the little troll girl.

 

“No idea.  I wasn’t in when they brought her from the home,” Roxy says.  “I don’t know if she’s alone, or if she had someone watching after her, or what.”

 

“That’s terrible!” Jade frowns.  “This whole Little Sister program creeps me out.  But I guess it’s alright if they’re being taken care of.”

 

Roxy smiles nervously.  A couple of the girls start poking in Jade’s bucket of tools, some of the trolls giggling at the older lady holding the bucket.

 

“What?  What’s so funny?” Some of the humans ask, to no avail.

 

“Dr. Lalonde.  I didn’t think I’d see you here today.”

 

Roxy and Jade look up to see John standing nearby, jacket over his arm, having just come from the metro station. 

 

“Just taking the girls out for a walk, boss,” Roxy says, winking saucily.

 

“Hello to you, too, John,” Jade says, crossing her arms.

 

“I’m sorry.  Hello, Jade.”

 

“That’s Professor Harley, to you,” Jade says.

 

“Alright,” John says, giving her an uncertain, appraising look.  “Dr., I was wondering if I could have a word?  I’ve got some questions I want to ask you.  Privately.”

 

Roxy nods and turns to Jade.

 

“Hey, Jade, you mind watching the girls for a minute?”

 

“Okay, but only a minute!”

 

“You’re a doll,” Roxy says, turning to follow John a short distance away.  Meulin tries to follow after, but Jade restrains her.

 

“Not right now, Meulin.  It’s time for the grown-ups to talk.”

 

“Okay…” Meulin frowns and looks worriedly over at Roxy.

 

“What’s this about, John?”

 

“It’s about the Little Sister program,” John says.  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but things lately have gotten pretty bad.”

 

“You can say that again.”

 

“I’m talking bad as in dangerous,” John ignores the jab.  “People getting mugged, or worse.  And it’s been happening near the orphanages, too.  I was talking with Horuss about steps to take to help solve the problem when we take over the program, and…”

 

“Woah, woah, woah, wait, hold on,” Roxy says.  “The Little Sisters are property of Cherub Futuristicals…Futur…fuck it.  Point is, since when is Egbert Industries in charge of things around here?  What happened to fair and honest trade, just cuz you’ve got the bigger gun?”

 

John looks genuinely hurt for a brief moment, but steels his expression.

 

“I am going to auction off every bit of Cherub Futuristics, like I promised, but do you really think there’s any chance I’m going to pass up something that lucrative?”

 

“So this is just about making a quack buick to you, is that it?  You don’t care that—,” Roxy’s voice drops to an angry whisper.  “You don’t care that these are real children here?  I may be responsible for this whole shebang, but even I can see how screwed up this whole damned arrangement is.”

 

“But you are responsible,” John says.  “Without you, we wouldn’t have an ADAM market, people wouldn’t be splicing up, we wouldn’t have any of the amazing medical treatments or any of that.  And these girls don’t have anywhere else to go.  So if they can give us the ADAM we need, and we take care of them in return, I don’t see how that’s such a bad deal.”

 

“You really think they’re all orphans?” Roxy asks.

 

“Listen,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I told you already, it’s getting dangerous.  Girls have gone missing lately, so I don’t want you taking them on these little outings until we can give them some kind of protection.”

 

“Until that auction’s over, I’ll take these girls out whenever I like, just you try and sptopt me!  Fucking, goddamn it I’m not even that drunk.”

 

“Roxy, please don’t,” John says.  “You’d only be putting them in danger.  Needlessly, I might add.”

 

“Ms. Roxy?”

 

Roxy looks down to see Meulin taking her hand, which has curled into a fist.  Some of the other girls are also gathering around.  They stare up at her with their cold, monochromatic gazes.

 

“Ms. Roxy, I’m tired.”

 

“Me too, Ms. Roxy.”

 

“It’s okay, girls,” Roxy says.  She turns to glare at John one last time.  “We’re going home now.  Let’s get everyone together and into the bathysphere.”

 

 

***

 

 

Every city’s got to have its houses of ill repute, and even a city with no laws still has a few unspoken taboos.  No respectable citizen of Rapture would be caught dead strolling down to the plaza in the old Mason’s Quarter; it’d be social suicide.  Still, while it’s all stately townhouses and pristine façade, there’s a roaring business in this part of town in all things shameful and risqué.  Wasn’t always like that, but c’est la vie.

 

Rose doesn’t have a reputation anyone cares to sully, making it easy for her to stroll down the street.  She stops by a few of the less tame brothels and checks to see how many socialites she can spot in case she needs a scandal to sell.

 

“Why, little Ms. Peixes, what a shocking surprise.”

 

“Fuck off, bottom feeder!  This ain’t yo damn business!”

 

“And Mr. Zahhak.  I believe the proprietor tells me you’re a regular here.”

 

“Oh fiddlesticks!”

 

Moving on, eventually Rose tracks down the block the Captor clan supposedly inhabits.  She climbs the stairs to the third floor, knocking on the door to the nearest apartment.  It is a few minutes before someone answers.

 

“What?”

 

The troll before Rose is thin, bags under his polychromatic eyes that stare blearily out from behind a pair of thick glasses.  The apartment behind him is a mess that reeks of smoke and rotten food.

 

“Is this the Captor residence?”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“Hello, my name is Rose Lalonde.  I’m a reporter for the Rapture Tribune, and I was wondering if I could have a quick word?”

 

The troll stares at her for a long time before shuffling aside to let her in.  Rose looks around the low-ceilinged living room, which is dusty and full of broken machine parts.  Through a door she can see a kitchen, where food and garbage are strewn about the floor.  Past the kitchen is a door, which she assumes leads into a bedroom of some sort.

 

“Is there anyone else here?”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re by yourself?”

 

“Yeth.”

 

“How long have you been here alone?”

 

The troll shrugs, and Rose gets the distinct impression that she’s dealing with someone who ought to be in a sanatorium, or at the very least heavily medicated.  She notices among the machine parts a number of spent hypos.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Mituna.”

 

“Mituna.  I wanted to talk to you about your relative, Sollux.”

 

Mituna perks up a little at this, which Rose takes as the go-ahead to continue.

 

“In particular I was interested to know about what he did for a living, who were his acquaintances, what sorts of activities he participated in before his death.”

 

Mituna’s mouth fell open.

 

“Thollux is dead!?”

 

“Oh, were you unaware…?”

 

“Holy fuck, what the chum guzzling FUCK, he jutht thaid he wath going out for a while, that LYING, TWO-FATHED NOOK SPLASHER!”

 

“Mituna, please calm yourself…”

 

Mituna violently flails his arms, causing some of the scraps from around the room to fly about.  Rose tries to calm him down, but to no avail.

 

“Those BITCHETH!  I bet it wath thothe Megido mung heapth, I will SMASH their HEADTH in.”

 

With two wild gesticulations, Mituna picks up the sofa and drops it on Rose, who falls to the floor in a heap.

 

 Rose comes to later with a splitting headache.  Mituna is nearby with a glass of water, which spills in his shaking hands as he wheezes nervously through his fangs.  Rose tries to sit up, but the room spins, and she has to lie back down.

 

“Here.”

 

Mituna hands her the water, fidgeting while she takes a few sips.  It tastes of copper.

 

“Gross,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

 

“I’m thorry.”

 

Rose looks over and sees the sofa split in two against the wall.  She’s lying on a pile of pillows in the corner that feels damp and smells of mold.

 

“Oh gosh I’m thorry I dropped the couch on you can you pleathe forgive me.”

 

Rose groans, slowly raising herself up to a sitting position.  She looks down at her hands and counts the fingers, satisfying herself that she wasn’t concussed.  Mituna vibrates in place, chewing holes in his bottom lip.

 

“Don’t do that,” Rose says when his mouth begins to bleed mustard yellow.

 

“I’m thorry.”

 

“Alright, Mituna,” Rose says, leaning back against the wall as she reaches into her coat pocket for her audio recorder.  “I’m going to ask you a few questions.  Can you answer them without going into an hysterical fit?”

 

Mituna shrugs.  Rose sighs, but resigns herself.

 

“Tell me about Sollux.”

 

“Machinitht.  Worked in Thentral Computing.  Pretty thwell gig.  Until thothe Megido HARPIETH came into the picture.”

 

“How did he meet them?”

 

Mituna shrugs.

 

“What happened after he met them?”

 

“Thtarted bringing thtuff home.  Like boxeth of bibleth, boothe, plathmidth.  ‘It’th jutht a favor I’m doing for a few friendth, Mituna’” his voice takes on a harsh, mocking timbre.  “‘No need to get your pantieth in a twitht.’  Joke’th on him, I thtole thome ADAM from one of the boxeth.  Firtht splithe.”

 

“You spliced because of Sollux?”

 

“THTUPID CHUMTHWEEP,” Mituna yelled.  Rose flinched.  “Oh god I’m thorry, I thouldn’t have shouted.”

 

“It’s alright, Mituna.  Did Sollux ever find out you were stealing from him?”

 

Mituna shook his head.  “No.  But hith boththeth sure did.  Came back here one day.  Lotth of muthle.  Thollux was in the kitchen.  I let them in.”

 

“What happened then?”

 

“Megidoth thold him out.  Thaid he wath thtealing shit off the top.  Broke hith hornth.  Electroshock.  Meththed him up bad.”

 

Mituna is shaking again, so Rose puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You don’t have to tell me.  I understand if it’s too difficult.  But what happened after that?”

 

“Thaid he had to work off hith debtth, or their bothth would flay him and wear hith thkin ath bootth.”

 

“What things did they have him do?”

 

Mituna shrugs.

 

“Thtopped getting boxeth from Megidoth.  Had to get ADAM thome other way.”

 

“But what about Sollux?  Did he meet with the Megidos again after that?”

 

Mituna shrugs.  Rose sighs.

 

“Thank you, Mituna.”

 

“I’m thorry.”

 

Rose gets up a little unsteadily, but makes her way to the front door to leave.  As she goes, she hears furniture being thrown around the apartment behind her.  Massaging her head, she makes her way to the nearest pharmacy to acquire painkillers and directions to Minerva’s Den.

 

 

***

 

 

Karkat wakes up with a start.  He’d been having an old nightmare again, and now finds himself in a vaguely familiar room.  After a moment, the events of the previous evening return to him, and he slumps back down against the pile of junk that was his bedding.  Dave is nowhere to be seen.  The sword and book, however, are right where they were last night, and this morning Karkat’s curiosity gets the better of him.

 

He opens it and finds it’s full of photographs.  There’s a shuffling outside, and in a flash Karkat is back on the pile pretending to be asleep as Dave enters the room.  There’s a brief pause before Karkat hears him snicker.

 

“You can stop pretending to be asleep.”

 

Karkat sits up and scowls.  Dave is standing there with a smirk on his face, a bag of what passes for groceries down here clutched in his left hand.

 

“What if I was having a really good dream, asshole, and the sound of your lead-footed clomping on the stairs proved too much for my fragile psyche to handle.  ‘Wake up, Karkat!’ it shouted, ‘There’s an idiot here to see you!’”

 

“Did your psyche also threw my photo album half-way across the room?”

 

Karkat looked slowly to where the book had ended up, realizing too late that it was easily five feet from where he’d found it.

 

“Okay, fine, so I went and took a peak, but can you honestly blame me?  It was sitting right there, with a great big neon flashing sign saying, ‘Please read me!’”

 

“You sure I should be trusting you as my seeing-eye troll?”

 

“My eyes are perfectly functional, thank you very much, and I never agreed to demean myself with any such undoubtedly painful duty!  For one thing, what’s even the going rate for that job?  Because I for one would surely not like to know.”

 

“Well, here’s what I figure,” Dave says, rummaging through the bag and pulling out a tin of some kind of meat.  “You’re jobless, and I’m not completely broke, but I am in need of some assistance from time to time.”

 

“You got to the market just fine,” Karkat quips.

 

“Did I Karkat?  Was it pure, amazing talent that got me to Skid Row and back without so much as a scratch, or dumb luck?  I’m blind, I can’t tell the difference until it smacks me in the face.”

 

Dave tosses a tin of meat toward Karkat, who catches it.

 

“Okay, I don’t get it,” Karkat says.

 

“What?” Dave’s mouth is full of spam.

 

“You said last night that you were helping me because it was the decent thing to do.”

 

“It was, is, and will continue to be so.”

 

“So what the fuck are you doing in Rapture?  This city takes people with that attitude and eats them for breakfast.  How have you made it this long without becoming bitter or dead?”

 

Dave picks up the photo album and opens it up.  Karkat shuffles over so he can see.  The first pages hold photos of a younger Dave without the cheaters on standing next to a young man a little taller with a truly unruly mop of blonde hair, the wilder equivalent of Dave’s slicked over style.  Some of the photos have them posed in overalls in front of parked cars or trucks, and some have them lounging on a porch with a pair of elderly human women.  Dave has a guitar in these photos, and the other blonde either a harmonica or tin pipes.

 

“Well, I was raised by my brother.  Which is to say, I was raised by a pair of old ladies that took my brother and I in while we were too young to be on our own, and besides getting a strict lesson in self-sufficiency, they also taught us the importance of hospitality and decency.  Staples of Southern culture, you know.”

 

“So why are you here, instead of whistling Dixie on some plantation somewhere?”

 

“A, not my style.  And I guess when the call went out, my brother and I decided we stood a better chance to make something of ourselves somewhere we had a clean slate.”

 

Karkat nods.  He understands the allure of fresh starts.

 

“Well, eat up,” Dave says.  “We’re going back up to the city today.”

 

“What?”

 

“Less talkie more shut up and eat your spam.”

 

“No, I can’t go back to the city.”

 

“Why not?  Whatever troubles you got yourself into before, they’re long since forgotten by now.  Hell, I’m probably still on someone’s wanted list and I’m going.”

 

“You’re also a moron with a desire to die a cold, miserable, crushing death.”

 

“I’ll pay you dollars.”

 

Karkat is shocked silent.

 

“You forgot that I was paying you to be my seeing-eye troll.  I’ve got some savings left, so I can make it worth your while.  But I can’t do this alone, and I trust you at least enough not to cut my throat in my sleep.  So are you coming, or are you just going to let me stumble around Big Bad Rapture with my eyes closed?”

 

Karkat frowns.

 

“Fine,” he says.  “But only because you’re paying me, and not because I give a shit about your idiotic ideas about decency.”

 

Dave shrugs.

 

“Fine by me, just so long as I get to where I’m going, I don’t much care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I do instead of sleep.


	4. The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

Sir Jake English cuts a dashing figure as he strolls into the offices of Ampora Whaling wrapped in a stylish trench coat.  He winks roguishly at the secretary before bypassing her completely and throwing open the door to the captain’s office.

 

“Eridan, old chap, I’ve got great news!”

 

“Hold on, Fef, I’vve got to see to this,” Eridan says into his desk phone, hanging it up with a look of annoyance.  Through the window behind him, the wharfs are entirely visible to his scrutiny, and Jake notes that all three subs are docked today, disgorging blubbery cubes from their holds.

 

“Great catch!” he whistles admiringly.  “Must’ve brought down a whole pod for that haul.”

 

“English, wwhat are you doin’ here?”

 

“Well, as to that!” Jake says, bounding up to lean on Eridan’s desk, hands splayed out over a complicated chart of the seafloor.  “I’m here to say that our financial troubles are taken care of!”

 

“You mean _your_ financial troubles.”

 

“Details,” Jake says with a dismissive wave.  “The point is, I’ve secured the funds to refurbish the fleet, and that means we, that is to say the two of us, are back in business!”

 

“Jake, wwith evvery intention of rainin on this sad parade, I nevver agreed to go in on this crackpot scheme a yours.”

 

Rather than wilt like a piece of kelp left in the sun, Jake’s grin broadens, taking Eridan a little aback.

 

“Ah, but have I told you _all_ the details of this allegedly crackpot scheme?”

 

“No,” Eridan says, feeling like Jake is trying to pull something over on him.  “Wwhich’d be wwhy I said no.  You’vve got to givve me somefin more than just, ‘Hey, Eridan, let’s get the fleet back together.’”

 

“The English Survey Company may be no more,” Jake says, pulling out a folded packet of pages from the pocket of his coat.  “But that’s all in the past.  Say hello to the English Submersible Disposal & Repair Company.”

 

Eridan takes the pages from where Jake threw them onto his desk and looks them over, eyebrows making a very steady climb up his forehead.

 

“I’ll admit, taking out the garbage is hardly the stuff of adventure,” Jake says.  “But, I’ve already got clients lining up to do business.  I haven’t even leased an office yet!”

 

Eridan folds the pages back up and hands them back to Jake, who pockets them.  Eridan’s expression is thoughtful, and he doesn’t meet Jake’s eyes for a few minutes.  Finally, he leans back in his purple-leather chair.

 

“Wwhich bank gave you the loan for this?”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, old chum,” Jake says, waving it off.  “I’ve told you, it’s taken care of.”

 

“Wwhich bank, Jake.  Just givve me the name.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Jake says, pulling at his collar a little.  “Well, it wasn’t a bank persay, more of a private investor.”

 

Eridan nods, suspicions confirmed.

 

“So this invvestor just approaches you wwith a loan, wwithout any credentials or collateral?”

 

“Of course there’s collateral,” Jake looks affronted.  “I’m not daft, you know.  I wagered part of my collection against it, and a few other sundries.”

 

“Howw much is he guaranteein you?”

 

“He’s covering the cost of the subs’ repairs, recalling the old crew, and basic operations for the first month.”

 

“I dunno, Jake, that seems a bit too reasonable,” Eridan says dubiously.

 

“Listen, I am a fantastic judge of character,” Jake says, in response to which Eridan snorts.  “And he struck me as a pretty standup kind of guy.  I would bet my life on it.”

 

“Wwatch yourself, landlubber, or you just might,” Eridan sighs.  “Alright, wwhat’s my part in all a this?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?  We’re partners in this venture, just like with the survey company!  I’ll make sure to keep our benefactor happy, and you see to things like crew and supplies.  You’ve got your earfins to the floor on this business, you’d be able to pick out the gulls from the guppies a nautical mile off.”

 

“Alright, enough wwith the sailor puns.  Noww, I’m not sayin’ I’m in yet, but wwhen wwould wwe be startin’ this grand undertakin’, to put it your wway?”

 

Jake comes around the desk to clap Eridan on the back.  “I knew you’d come around.”

 

“I just said I wwasn’t decidin’…”

 

“I’ve got to see a few people about getting the subs fixed, but if you could have some crews put together by the end of next week, that would be ripping.  Now, Eridan,” Jake says, expression going serious.  “This’ll be a new undertaking.  We’ll just be another lone fish in a sea of predators, so we’ll have to be cut throat.  Tenacious.  I daresay, even ruthless.  Whatever our past experiences, none of that will matter.  We’re about to journey into the unknown.”

 

“Jake,” Eridan says, completely nonplussed.  “I’vve been wwranglin’ seadogs longer than you’vve been raidin’ tombs.  I knoww wwhat it takes to survvivve in this line of wwork.”

 

“Knew I could count on you,” Jake says, winking roguishly and patting Eridan on the cheek.  Eridan rolls his eyes, not completely able to keep a purple blush from creeping up his gills.

 

“Right then, I’m off,” Jake says, flashing two finger pistols at Eridan as he goes.  “There’s much to be done!  Catch you later, partner.”

 

Eridan stands behind his desk mouth a little agape.

 

“I swwear, that English thinks he’s such a dandy.”

 

 

***

 

 

The lights in the Footlight Theater dim as Cronus takes the stage.  These days, the Footlight mostly filled up with trolls out of Neptune, the smell of fish hanging just under the cigarette smoke and liquor.  Cronus doesn’t mind—these are his people, the lonely and depressed, the ones trying to find some escape from their lot.  He’s long since given up his illusions of grandeur; years of failure have taught him that his voice may be pretty, but a pretty voice isn’t enough to land him a lover of any kind.

 

“This one’s an old torch song,” he says into the microphone.  “Nowv I’m not a torch singer, but I hope you all wvill listen.  Sing along if you knowv the wvords.”

 

And so he sings.

 

_Nowv you say you’re lonely_

_You cry the long night through_

_Wvell, you can cry me a rivwer_

_Cry me a rivwer_

_I cried a rivwer ovwer you_

_Nowv you say you’re sorry_

_For being so untrue_

_Wvell you can cry me a rivwer_

_Cry me a rivwer_

_I cried a rivwer ovwer you_

As Cronus sings, he spies a familiar pair of horns over by the bar.  The troll from the 13th Muse is watching him, but when she sees that he’s spotted her, she turns away.  After dropping a few dollars on the bar, she makes her way to the door and exits.  Cronus is a little sad to see her go—despite not getting off on the right foot, he had wanted to see her again.

 

He finishes the song and bows, exiting backstage while the band plays another number.  He hurries back to his dressing room, grabbing a drink of water from the tap in the sink before flopping down into a chair and pulling out a cigarette.  Posters on the wall advertise shows and high-class girls up in Fort Frolic, where Cronus would go if he had enough scratch to afford a decent suit.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

“Two minutes, Cronus.”

 

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Cronus says.  “Just, lemme wvet my gills a bit.”

 

Cronus puts out the cigarette in a half-full ashtray and gets another drink.  There’s a fluttering sound behind him, and he turns to see someone’s slipped a piece of paper under the door.  He picks it up, curious.

 

_HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?_

_Her name is Meulin Leijon, age 8 human years, and she was last seen playing in the fish market in Neptune’s Bounty.  If you have any information at all, please contact us at this address as soon as pawsible._

Cronus doesn’t read the address, being too distracted by the enormous picture of a little troll girl with conical horns staring back at him.

 

“You’re kidding me…”

 

“Cronus, you’re on,” the stage manager pokes his head in.

 

“Right, coming,” Cronus says.  He crumbles up the paper and tosses it into the corner. 

 

The rest of the night is lackluster.  That paper threw him for a loop, and as he finishes up the last number, he finds himself stumbling to the bar to get the stiffest drink on order.  After about three Bloody Mary’s and a few shots of vodka, he’s come to a firm determination—he needs to see someone, immediately.

 

He throws down a few dollars on the bar and stumbles out, winding his way through the city streets to the nearest metro station.  The last bathysphere to Point Prometheus has already left, however, forcing Cronus to rethink his plan.

 

“Wvell shit.  Maybe I can still take the express?”

 

The Atlantic Express predates the metro system by a decade, but doesn’t have nearly the reach.  Still, it’s a convenient way for people to get to the industrial districts, so Cronus buys a ticket and takes the last train to the Point.  The preserved skeleton of an enormous Mosasaur, hanging by cables from the vaulted metal and glass ceiling dominates the station.  Light from the Prometheus Tower filters down casting a pale blue glow on the floor.  The station’s lights are dim as Cronus leaves, searching for the Little Wonders Orphanage.  The facility is decorated with glossy wood panels and paleontological exhibits.  Cronus eventually finds an information desk, where a tired chess piece secretary is packing up her things.

 

“Excuse me, miss,” he says.  She looks up, and he can see her shoulders slump.

 

“We’re closed, sir.”

 

“Yeah, it’s just, I wvas wvonderin’, is Doctor Lalonde still in?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“I’d like to make an appointment to speak with Doctor Lalonde.”

 

“Doctor Lalonde went home hours ago.  You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

 

“Nowv listen here,” Cronus says, baring his teeth.  “All I wvant is for you to make me a damn appointment.  That’s your job, isn’t it?  Wvhat’s the city coming to wvhen lowvly secretaries aren’t evwen doing wvhat they’re paid for?”

 

The secretary looks unamused and continues to pack up her things.  Cronus changes tactics, adopting a pleading expression.

 

“Please, I need your help.  It’s vwery important that I see her as soon as possible.  Can’t you just do this one little thing?  I wvon’t make any more trouble, promise, just please tell me howv I can find her.”

 

“Vana, what’s –hic-, excuse me, goin’ on out here?”

 

Roxy, flask in hand, leans against the door leading into the labs looking sloshed.

 

“Nothing, Doctor, I was just telling this gentleman to leave.”

 

“Whasshe want?” Roxy asks, coming forward to get a better look at Cronus.  “Hey, wait a mibit…minute, fucking hell.  I know this guy.”

 

“You do?” the secretary asks, surprised.

 

“Yeah, he’s cool.  Hey,” Roxy says, turning to Cronus.  “I’m jussabout to head out, three sheets to the wind as you can plainly see.  Candit wait?”

 

“I’d, uh, wvell, see it’s kind of important.”

 

Roxy sighs resignedly, belches, and then waves Cronus to follow her back into the lab.

 

“Iss alright, Vana, I ken locker up…locket…fuck, you know what I’m sayin’.  Go home.”

 

Cronus follows Roxy down a corridor and into an office full of wizard knick-knacks, chalkboards, and bookshelves.  Roxy opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a bottle of Red Ribbon brandy and a couple of glasses, one of which she offers to Cronus.

 

“Thanks,” he says, taking it.

 

“Sure thing.  Never go into any kind of meeting without some fortifyring drank.”

 

Roxy drains her glass while Cronus nurses his more slowly.

 

“So what brings you to my office?”

 

“Wvell,” Cronus starts uncertainly.  “It’s about…one of the girls.”

 

Roxy raises a well-tweezed eyebrow.  Cronus finishes his drink.

 

“I wvas wvorking a gig dowvn at the Footlight, and one of the stage managers I guess hands me this sign.  It wvas for a missing troll girl, about eight years old.”

 

Roxy pours herself another glass of brandy, swirling it while she ponders this.

 

“You bring us girls smuttimes…fuck, hah, shut up,” Roxy narrows her eyes at Cronus before he can laugh.  “You bring us girls sometimes, right?”

 

Cronus nods.

 

“And the troll girl in your poster, she was one of them?”

 

Cronus nods again, taking out a cigarette.  Roxy snatches it out of his hand with surprising swiftness.

 

“Don’t smoke im my offices,” she says.  “Lemme ask you somethin.  Why do you care about one sweet lil troll girl?  You meshed up and found one wifth a familer.  Family.  So what?”

 

“Wvell, it’s just that I’vwe also met her mother.”

 

Cronus puts the word in air quotes.

 

“She wvas real messed up, drinking herself stupid over it.  And I just, I don’t evwen knowv.  I feel bad about it.”

 

Roxy waits a beat, and then laughs in Cronus’s face.  Cronus protests, but Roxy keeps laughing over him, spilling a bit of her brandy on the carpet.

 

“Wvell there’s no call for that.  Just because a guy up and growvs a fuckin’ conscience.”

 

“You juss now thoughta that?  _Just_ now?  Reliazed to yerself, ‘summa these girls might have folks, maybe they’ve got someone who’ll come looking for em’?”

 

“But—,”

 

“But nothen,” Roxy snaps.  “Ff you knew tha guy that used to run this place, you’d’ve known a loooong time ago what kinda operation this was.  Didn’t give two fucks if she was a pauper or a princess, just snatched her off the streets, and bam.  Slugfest.”

 

“Ewv,” Cronus wrinkles his nose at the image.

 

“Ann where d’you get off, feeling sorry for yorsylf now?  There’s not a damn thing you or I can do.  Once you get that slug inside them…”

 

“Still ewv.”

 

“It’s not coming out.  It’s in there for life.  Signed the ninety-year lease, it’s making payments in the form of ADAM, and that’s it.  Done.  Finished.”

 

Roxy falls silent, brandy forgotten on the desk after her outburst.  Cronus realizes that there are tears in her eyes by the way her mascara runs just a little, but Roxy slaps his hand away when he moves to comfort her.

 

“Do yourself a favor and forget about it.  You can’t change a thing.”

 

They are quiet for a while longer, Roxy retrieving her brandy for a few more sips.  She puts the bottle away, and leads Cronus out, locking her office door behind her.  They don’t speak as they leave the orphanage, Roxy entering the keycode to lock the place down for the night.

 

“Maybe you should find your friebd…fridend…shit.  The woman whose troll daughter you kiddienapped.  You should tell her she’s dead, let her get some closure on the matter.”

 

“I ain’t gonna lie to her,” Cronus huffed.

 

“Now’s not really the time to get your principles,” Roxy says reprovingly.  “But whatever.  It’s in your fins.  Goodnight.”

 

Roxy waves as she walks off, stumbling a little on the carpet in her heels, but not slowing her pace.  Cronus stands there miserably, trying to figure out what to do.

 

 

***

 

 

“Ms. Crocker, Mr. Egbert will see you now.”

 

Jane is sitting in a waiting room in Rapture Central Control.  The voice that comes over the intercom is a recording—the previous secretary was a fellow named Deuce, but Jane supposes it was less expensive to use recordings than hire another one.  She stands, walking over to the door to John’s office and absently spinning the gilt globe he keeps in the corner of the room as she passes.  Rapture’s location is marked by a stylized compass, the lines of which are traced across the oceans.

 

John sits at his desk, poring over a stack of reports.  Behind him a pair of windows overlooks the lava fields around the building, and between these is the panel of terminals by which he can observe and command his entire company.  As Jane understands it, this was an idea suggested by his aforementioned late secretary, which John implemented because he thought it sounded charming.  She stands by the door, waiting for him to look up.

 

“Oh, hello Jane.  Please, have a seat.”

 

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

 

John shrugs, crossing over to the front of his desk so he can lean against it while he talks.

 

“Look, if this is about the Serket case,” Jane begins.

 

“It’s not.  But I saw Slick’s report, and had words with him about scaring you off.  He seemed to think that just because I had him on the case that you were being let go.”

 

Jane doesn't like the rueful smile John is giving her.  She turns to look at the wall opposite the desk, which has a number of photos and notes joined by bits of thread.  In the middle is a blurry picture of Vriska Serket, but as of yet no threads connect to her.

 

“I don’t want this to be solely an Egbert Industries investigation,” John continues.  “After the disaster with Cherub Futuristics, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m just cherry-picking off people I don’t like.”

 

“I thought that you and Vriska were pretty close.”

 

“Once upon a time, sure,” John says, shrugging.  “But a lot has changed.  And besides, I didn’t want to lose your exceptional talents.”

 

Jane nods, looking over the yarn web.  There are a few more leads here that she was unaware of, and so takes out her casebook to write a few down.  They look like the usual peons—chessmen and the like—but they might still possess useful information, depending on the state Slick left them in.

 

“So when did you start suspecting Serket was involved with the smugglers?” Jane asks.

 

John snickers.

 

“Have you met her?  She’s got the word ‘pir8’ tattooed across her back.”

 

Jane raises an eyebrow, causing John to blush a little, coughing into his hand.

 

“I’m not really sure I want to know how you know that,” Jane says, even though it’s obvious.  “But is that all?  Besides her suspicious behavior, there hasn’t been anything to suggest that she’s even behind any of this.”

 

“Trust me.  If there’s anyone behind an exceptionally convoluted web of dupes and agents, it’s Vriska.  We just need proof.”

 

Jane nods again, taking note of a few stops she’s going to have to make after this.

 

“Oh, yeah, this wasn’t about the case!” John says, straightening up.  He shuffles around a few things in one of his desk drawers, pulling out a bottle of wine.

 

“What’s this for?”

 

“Really, Jane?” John asks.  “Do you even know what day it is?”

 

“December sixth.  Oh!”

 

“Dad’s birthday,” John says, pouring two glasses and handing one to her.  “Here’s to Dad, the best man I ever knew.”

 

They toast, Jane taking a small sip while John drains his glass.  John pours himself more wine while Jane puts her glass down on a side table.  John never used to drink this much, she thinks.  But then, Vriska isn’t the only one to have changed with time.

 

“We should have dinner tonight, to celebrate,” John says after his second glass.  “I’ll book us a table at the Kashmir.”

 

“You called me to your office so you could get us dinner reservations?” Jane asks.  “You could’ve just called me and said we had them.”

 

“I know,” John says.  “But we’re both busy people, Jane.  I missed seeing you.”

 

“That’s sweet, and everything,” Jane replies.  “But there’s a reason we’re both busy.”

 

She nods back at the yarn web.  John shrugs.  The intercom crackles to life at that moment.

 

“Mr. Egbert,” the rough voice of Spades Slick comes through.  “We’ve brought her in.”

 

“Thank you, Slick,” John says quickly hitting the button.  “Just keep her in holding until I’ve got a minute.”

 

“Wait, who’s he brought in?” Jane asks.

 

“Ah,” John says.  “That would be Ms. Terezi Pyrope.  Your lead.”

 

Jane’s mouth falls open aghast.

 

“You used our dad’s birthday as an excuse to get me off the streets so your crew could bring her in!”

 

“Don’t be silly,” John protests.

 

“I can’t believe you, John!  Although, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at this point the things you’re capable of.”

 

“Look, they were already looking for her, it’s just dumb luck they happened to catch her today!”

 

Jane strides over to John’s desk—“Jane what are you doing?”—and begins rifling through reports—“Jane, no stop!”—until she finds one from Slick.

 

“‘Located the Pyrope girl, will move on your order,’ dated 12/2,” Jane says.  “That was four days ago.  You could’ve had her in here at any minute, but you waited to get me out of the way first with this nonsense about missing me and Dad’s birthday dinner!”

 

“Okay, I know this looks pretty bad, Jane…”

 

“You bet your trousers it looks bad!”

 

The intercom crackles to life again.

 

“Mr. Egbert?” it was Slick again.

 

“Yes, what?” John asks, annoyed.

 

“She wants to know if the Crocker girl is here.”

 

“What?”

 

“She says she’ll sing, but only to Jane Crocker.”

 

 

***

 

 

After the Drop, just about any place looks like a Sultan’s palace, but even Karkat has to admit he’s disappointed by the accommodations of Hestia Chambers.  He and Dave have made their way up through the city, stowing away on an empty Atlantic Express train sidelined through the Drop while track repairs happen on the main line, and then keeping out of sight of the city’s massive surveillance system as much as possible.

 

“If I had a slightly larger fortune and a death wish, I’d invest in some of that Security Expert I used to see posters for around the square,” Dave had said as they waited for a camera to sweep past them.

 

“What the eye-bleeding fuck is that?”

 

“Dunno, but it helps with the cameras.”

 

Hestia Chambers is about the nearest thing to a poorhouse as anything in Rapture, each apartment packed with easily a dozen people—“But at least you’ve all got mattresses,” Karkat points out.  “Okay, point taken,” Dave says—and, except for a few doors in the upper floors, all the flats are unlocked.

 

“No one here has anything worth stealing,” Dave explains.  He has his sword slung across his back, and makes his way gingerly up the stairs.  “Is this the fourth floor?  I’ve lost track.”

 

“How can you have lost track?  You’ve had your hand on the railing the entire time, surely you’ve been counting landings or something!”

 

“You would assume so,” Dave says.  Karkat mutters a string of expletives under his breath.

 

“Can’t hear you through all the backsass, Karkat.”

 

“Yes, you unbelievable ass, this is the fourth floor.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

Dave lets go of the railing and walks down the nearest corridor, counting doors aloud as he walks past them.  At the fourth door, he stops and turns the knob.  Inside is another apartment packed with bunk beds, but unlike previous flats this one looks like it’s been abandoned for some time.  Two of the bunks are tipped over, their mattresses thrown about the room.  Karkat notices the bullet holes in the walls.

 

“Jegus, what happened here?”

 

“I'm guessing ostensibly a smuggler raid,” Dave says, going over to one of the bunks at the far end of the room.  “Really, it was probably just an excuse to get rid of a bunch of inconvenient people.”

 

He pulls a chest out from under the bottom bunk and opens it.  Inside is a crowbar.

 

“Here, help me find something.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m looking for a floorboard with a gear shape carved into it.”

 

Karkat fumes.

 

“That sounds tedious and pointless.”

 

“I need your help over here,” Dave says.  “Mostly blind, if you’ll recall.”

 

Karkat scoffs, but gets down on his hands and knees to scan the floorboards near the bunk that concealed the trunk.  After several minutes he finds it.

 

“Here it is,” he says, and Dave shuffles over, shoving the crowbar between the boards and yanking them up.  The sound of splitting wood sounds deafening to Karkat, but no one comes to investigate.  After tearing up a few boards, Dave tosses the crowbar aside—Karkat takes a second to go retrieve it in case he needs to defend himself—and thrusts and arm down into the space.

 

“Come on, you fucker, where’d you put it,” he mutters, searching around.  “Got you.”

 

He pulls a metal box out of the floor, which is padlocked.  Karkat takes it from Dave and smashes the lock with the crowbar.

 

“Good thinking,” Dave says.

 

“Thanks.  Now what’s in this fucking thing?”

 

“Hopefully, your paycheck, and…” Dave opens the box.  “Jackpot.”

 

Karkat’s mouth falls open.  The box holds a few stacks of Rapture dollars, more than he’s seen in years all at once, a few rolled up posters, an audio recorder, and a pistol with plenty of ammunition.

 

“Jegus, I thought when you said you weren’t completely broke you weren’t being sarcastic.”

 

“This isn’t enough to pay the rent for very long,” Dave says.  “You’ve been down there a while, I guess.”

 

Dave takes the audio recorder while Karkat unrolls one of the posters.  A chessman stands heroically posed over the caption _Who Is The White Knight?_   Dave hits the playback button on the recorder.

 

_Hey, bro, this is Dirk.  I know you were all stoked for a big reunion after your trip out of town, but…*CRASH*…shit, things have gone tits up here.  I’m sorry._

Distorted gunfire cuts off the latest recording.  Dave frowns and rewinds the tape a ways, but the recording before that is by Dave himself, so he turns it off.

 

“Dave?”

 

“No, it’s cool.  Everything’s copasetic up here.  We’ve just got to find out what happened.”

 

Karkat pretends to ignore the way Dave’s shoulders shake a little as he takes the gun, checking to see it’s loaded.  He hands it to Karkat, who takes it a little uncertainly.

 

“You can aim better than I can, so you’d better take this.”

 

Dave counts out a few dollars and hands them to Karkat as well.  Karkat holds them for a moment, remembering the unfamiliar texture of money, the way it smells.  Even if this deal doesn’t pan out, he could last for weeks in the Drop on this alone, assuming he can even get back there.  Dave stands up, the rest of the money tucked into different pockets about his person.

 

“Alright, let’s go.”

 

“Hold on,” Karkat says.

 

“What?” Dave snaps.

 

“I don’t know what shit you’ve got yourself mixed up in, but I’m not going anywhere until you answer me one question first.  Is that so fucking much to ask?”

 

“Always with the doubts and the questions, no wonder you ended up in the Drop.”

 

“Fuck you,” Karkat snarls.

 

“What’s your question?”

 

“What exactly are we doing?  Are we just looking for an explanation, or are we actually going to find your brother?”

 

“The latter, ideally,” Dave says.  “I’m not going to rule out the possibility that he’s dead, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“Oh.  Well.  Yeah, I guess that was a less roundabout way of putting it.”

 

Dave snorts, not really sounding amused, and makes his way slowly back to the door.  Karkat swears and follows after him.

 

“This fucker’s going to get us both killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was Lalonde-centric, this one's Ampora-centric, and I still have no idea what is even going on.
> 
> Lyrics from Cry Me A River, by Arthur Hamilton


	5. God Bless The Child

Feferi Peixes was putting on a pair of pink topaz earrings, examining her reflection in the mirror to make sure that everything about her appearance was in place.  Satisfied, she grabs her purse and makes her way to her heir’s suite.

 

“Meenah,” she calls out.  “Are you ready?  It’s almost time to leave for the Foundation dinner.”

 

“Five minutes, cod!”

 

Feferi enters the room anyway.  There’s a mess of clothing on the floor, and one or two of Meenah’s golden tridents scattered about.  Meenah herself is in the bathroom, definitely not dressed to leave, and not looking as though she had any intention of getting ready.  She has only just gotten out of the shower, towels wrapped around her while she sees to her eyeliner.  Feferi sighs exasperatedly.

 

“Look, I said gimme five minutes!  You can’t just barge in here expectin’ me to be shrimped and ready.”

 

“Meenah, I told you an hour ago to put your clothes on for this important dinner with the trustees of the Foundation that you’re going to inherit one day, would you PL-EAS-E explain to me WHY you haven’t even made the slightest effort to do as I basked?”

 

Meenah fumes.

 

“And I told YOU that I didn’t want anyfin to do with your chum-stuffed Foundation!”

 

“Meenah!  Language!”

 

“YOU AIN’T MY HUMAN MOM!”

 

“Be that as it may, you’re krill my heir apparent, and that means you have a responsibility to uphold.  Now, I’m going to go on ahead, because ON-E of us needs to be there on time, but I’m having Latula come by to make DAM SHOR-E that you get dressed.”

 

“Shore, whatever, just get outta my hair already.”

 

Feferi goes to the phone to call Latula on her way out the door.  Meenah waits until she hears the click before running over to the phone.

 

“Hey, Latula, you there?”

 

“Oh my gosh, girl,” Latula answers.  “That was your mom just then, and she sounded wicked irate.”

 

“Cod, bitch wants me to come to some boring ass dinner.  You ready for tonight?”

 

“Yeah, I’m ready!  Who do you think you’re talking to?  Tonight is gonna be OUTSTANDING!”

 

“Good to hear.  See you in, what, fifteen minutes?  What shoret of cray time table the old witch got you on?”

 

“Try seven.”

 

Meenah dashed back into the bathroom and had on her street clothes with thirty seconds to spare.  She had the door open before Latula, similarly attired, could touch the doorbell.

 

“Woah, girl!  That is some impressive timing.”

 

“Clam it.  Let’s go.”

 

The two take the elevator down to street level, exiting with hats pulled low to avoid attracting suspicion.  The concierge recognizes them, of course, but Meenah silences the chessman with a threatening snarl as they pass the front desk.  Out in street, they pause.

 

“A’ight, my way radical sis,” Latula says.  “What’s it to be tonight?  Back to the Quarter?”

 

“Naw, there’s somefin I wanna check out.  Been seain’ posters up for it a while.”

 

They pass by a news kiosk, and ignore the vendor thrusting papers at them.  In a dark corner of a nearby plaza, Meenah spies what she’s looking for: a series of posters, all bearing the caption _Who Is The White Knight?_ Latula stops when she sees them.

 

“Hold up,” she says warily.  “I’ve been hearing talk of this guy.  People’ve been saying he wants to start some kind of rebellion.”

 

“Reely?” Meenah asks.  “Well, now we _have_ to go.”

 

“I dunno.  It could be dangerous.”

 

“Are my earfins deceivin’ me?  Girl, you never back down from nofin just cuz it ‘could be dangerous’.”

 

Meenah takes down one of the posters and checks the back, holding it up to the light to look for a watermark.  Down in the corner, however, is scrawled, ‘White Queen, East of Apollo’.

 

“What the shell’s ‘White Queen’?”

 

“It’s a dive bar all the chessmen go to,” Latula says.  “Strictly white or black only.”

 

They both look down at their coats—nondescript brown.

 

“Shit, we gotta go get some new threads,” Meenah says.

 

“Do I smell a shopping spree?” Latula says, tapping her nose.

 

Several hours later, the two emerge from Poseidon Plaza, shopping bags in hand, each decked in a new look.  Meenah, having called dibs on black, wears a black pea coat and suit, while Latula rocks the white trench coat and wide-brimmed hat.

 

“Alright,” Latula says, adjusting the angle of her hat.  “Let’s do this.”

 

The White Queen is practically below sewer level, so far down does one have to go to find it.  If not for the steady flow of chessmen, it’d be easy enough to lose oneself in the maze of steam pipes, gas mains and electric conduits.  The White Queen is marked by a large neon sign in the shape of a queen next to a set of windows that offer a wide view of the seafloor.  Outside a pair of black chessman bouncers vet people entering the club—all chessmen get in, but Meenah and Latula watch as a couple of humans and trolls are sent packing.

 

“Think this is black enough?” Meenah asks, indicating her coat.

 

“Girl, any blacker and they’d have to invent a new color.”

 

They flash some dollars at the head of the line and make their way inside.  The White Queen is divided into three areas: the Board, a large black and white tiled cabaret that dominates the place; the Gambit Casino, a ballroom area to the right only accessible by white pieces; the Felt Lounge, a gambling parlor stroke speakeasy to the left exclusive to black pieces.  A large sign next to the entrance to the Felt Lounge reads, ‘Three Nights Only…Snowman!’

 

“Get a load of this place!” Latula says, eyes widening behind her glasses.  “I bet we get our best seats for the band down there.”

 

“Don’t forget, we’re keeping an eye out for this White Knight minnow.”

 

“Bet you he’s in the Gambit,” Latula says.

 

“Well, you have fun then.  I don’t quite meet the dress code.”

 

Latula waves and all but skips over to the Gambit, getting past the doorman with a casual flick of her hair.  Meenah scowls and eyes up the Felt Lounge.  The burly chessman standing out front isn’t letting anyone through, not that there’s much of a line.  Meenah pushes her way over.

 

“Members only,” the chessman says.

 

“What do I gotta do to _become_ a member?”

 

This seems to throw the chessman for a loop.

 

“Hold on a minute,” he says, pushing aside the red curtain covering the door and vanishing inside.  Meenah waits about thirty seconds before pushing the curtains aside and following.

 

After a short, winding corridor, Meenah finds herself in a smaller cabaret, at the back of which are a number of billiard tables.  The singer is a beautiful, tall black chess piece in a midnight black gown.  Green felt curtains hang on the walls, which matches the green lamps and carpeting.  There are only, besides the singer, a dozen people in the club, including the bartender.  Meenah wanders over to him and orders a drink while she scopes the place out.  Without her noticing, a little man in a green suit and purple bowler hat totters over and starts pulling on her sleeve.

 

“You might try the billiards,” he says brightly.

 

“Shove off, munchkin.”

 

“Your coat’s black.  You picked a bad night to come in.  Felt members only!”

 

“So, what, I gotta get a green felt suit?”

 

The man in the purple bowler nods vigorously.

 

“Whale, I asked the guy at the door how to get into your fanseahorse club, and he just up an left me hangin’.”

 

“You should challenge Crowbar over there to a game of billiards!”

  
He points across the room to the billiard tables, where a broad-shouldered man in a green suit and red tri-corn hat is playing against a tall fellow in a green suit with a green and white striped top hat.

 

“What’s with the hats around here?”

 

Purple bowler shrugs, and Meenah follows him over.  She slams a hand down on the table, blocking Crowbar’s next shot.

 

“Alright, Crowbar,” she says.  “I’m cuttin’ the line.  You and me, right now.”

 

Crowbar straightens up and looks at purple bowler, who scuttles over to whisper in Crowbar’s ear.  He nods and says a few things quietly to him before tossing Meenah a stick.  Purple bowler returns.

 

“He accepts your challenge, if you agree to a wager.  I’d definitely take it if I were you.”

 

“What’s the whaler?”

 

“If he wins, he lets you walk out of here.  If you lose, he snaps your neck.”

 

“The fuck kind of wager is that?”

 

“I did say you picked the wrong night to barge in here.”

 

“How about this instead,” Meenah says, thinking carefully.  “If I win, he lets me into your little club and buoys me a sassy green coat.”

 

Purple bowler goes back to Crowbar for another whispered conference.

 

“And if you lose?” he asks, returning.

 

“I’ll throw in a couple grand for everyone here, and then he can cull me.”

 

Purple bowler’s eyes pop, and he all but trips over himself relaying this back to Crowbar.  The other man smirks at the terms and nods to Meenah.  Meenah’s return smile can only be described as predatory.

 

 

***

 

 

Minerva’s Den is a sprawling complex.  Beyond the palatial lobby with its replica Rodin, the offices and machine warehouses of Rapture Central Computing spread out like a root system, connecting a dizzying number of electronic systems in the city.  Rose stands in the center and can’t help but feel a little awed at the scale—Rapture is one thing, but every society has its temples.  This was something else.

 

She’s booked an appointment with one of the supervisors, but still has an hour or so to look around the place.  Turning right from the corporate offices, she wanders into one of the machine areas.  Great, towering computers line the building end to end, operators sitting at tables reading tape readouts and changing punch cards.

 

“Hey!  What do you think you’re doing back here?”

 

She looks over and sees an irritated chessman pointing at her.  Waving, she approaches, hand in her pocket in case he asks for her press pass.

 

“Hello, Rose Lalonde, I’m with the Rapture Tribune.”

 

“This is a restricted area,” the chessman says, ushering her toward the door.  “If you have any questions, ask them at the front desk.”

 

He stands there watching until she’s walked out of sight and then returns to the computers.  Curiosity getting the better of her, Rose waits a few minutes before walking right back down the corridor, past the machine room this time, and into a drafting room, which is filled with chalkboards of incomprehensible calculations, filing cabinets, and design sketches.  She notes the sprinkler system along the walls, but moves on.

 

The next room is a filing area, where a couple of archivists sort paperwork at a desk in front of rows of cabinets.  Rose’s mind dances with the possibilities a few minutes snooping could unearth.  A hand claps on her shoulder.  It’s the chessman from before.

 

“Listen, lady, am I going to have to bar you from the premises?  When I say restricted, I mean _get out_.”

 

“That’s quite a twist on the turn of phrase.”

 

This time, the chessman makes sure she ends up in the lobby, instructing the desk clerk to keep an eye on her.  She smiles at him, and waits patiently for her meeting time.

 

“Excuse me,” she says to the clerk with five minutes to spare.  “I’m supposed to be in a meeting soon.  Could you tell me where I can find the supervisor’s office?”

 

A little bemused, the clerk points her in the direction, and five minutes later she’s sitting down with boring, fussy troll whose lisp is, if anything, more pronounced than Mituna’s.  A few questions and some wrangling later, and she had a pass to visit the archives to look up information on Sollux.

 

“He thould be in the employeeth recordth, but if not then I’m thorry but I don’t know what to tell you.”

 

“Thank you, this will be of great help.”

 

“I’m curiouth.  That whole thing wath yearth ago.  Why ith it jutht being brought up now?”

 

“I got a reliable tip that there was a story there.  And besides, with all the fervor concerning smugglers lately, surely it was bound to resurface.”

 

Rose made sure to wave at the chessman in the computer room as she walked past toward the archive chamber.

 

“Hello, Rose Lalonde, Rapture Tribunal,” she said.  “I’m here to inquire about the employee records of Sollux Captor.”

 

“I see, hang on a moment,” one of the archivists said, taking off her glasses and moving among the filing cabinets.  She returns a few minutes later with a folder in hand.  “Here you are.  Everything we have on him.”

 

“May I ask, do you keep any other sorts of records in here?”

 

“Why, yes, of course.  We keep all of our records in here: employee records, transactional records, maintenance records, patents, and the like.”

 

“Would it be reasonable to suppose that I might find information relevant to Sollux in any of those records?”

 

The archivists exchange looks. 

 

“I suppose it’s possible.  It all depends on what he did.”

 

“I believe he was a machinist.”

 

“Then it’s unlikely.  But if you find anything, don’t hesitate to come back and check.”

 

“Thank you.  Is it alright if I take this with me?  I’m not going far, just out to the lobby.”

 

The archivists wave Rose off.  She returns to the lobby and begins flipping through the file, a notepad in hand and audio recorder in another so that she can dictate her thoughts.

 

“Diligent employee…reasonably regular attendance…special accomplishments…installed a new CPU in warehouse 3, well that’s something…aspiring draftsman…known to suffer from mood swings, imagine…noted for working odd hours in the last few months of his employment.  If what Mituna told me is true, then that would be when he was working for whomever it was he was smuggling.  Which comes as no surprise.  Whom was he working with?”

 

An hour or so of poring over salary receipts, supervisor reports, and a few fascinating but nonsensical machine diagrams reveal nothing.

 

“So, mood swings, odd hours, threats against his life, and then suddenly he resorts to murder.  But what happened?  I know that I’ve forgotten about something, but I can’t for the life of me think what.  One day out of the blue, Sollux Captor storms the stage at Eve’s Garden, murders Aradia Megido, and puts a bullet through his head.  Ah,” Rose says, realization dawning on her.  “But Aradia was part of a sister act, and the other sister is one who hasn’t been seen in public for some time.  Perhaps it’s time I paid Damara Megido a visit?”

 

Much to her surprise, Rose finds Damara very willing to speak on the subject of her murdered sister.  Later that afternoon, Rose knocks on the door of her Mercury Suite’s apartment, where an elderly porter lets her in.  Damara meets her in the study, which has low couches around a mahogany table on which sits a tea service.  Damara has grown no less striking over the years, her thick black hair kept up by chopsticks in a style that Rose considers recommending to her contact at the Chic.

 

“So you wish me to tell you what I didn’t tell the inspectors all those years ago, about my sister’s time with the bainin.”

 

“Well, as I understand it you’re under no obligation to tell me anything you didn’t tell them, although as that was why I was invited here I would question the need to suggest I was done so under false pretense.”

 

Damara laughs, a short, harsh titter.  Her face returns to its former seriousness.

 

“False pretense?  My sister and I built our careers on pretense, the pretense that we were closely related siblings who cared very deeply for each other.  People bought it, and so we bought fame.  Few suspected the truth that the sister’s weren’t that close, and fewer the truth that we weren’t even especially fond of each other.”

 

Damara pouted a little, folding her hands demurely in her lap.

 

“Sweet girl, Aradia was.  But so foolish.  Lost in the pretense, she failed to see the bigger picture.  That’s why she was killed.”

 

“I’m afraid you’re speaking from a context that I, not being privy to, find rather obtuse and mysterious.”

 

“That’s because you’re not _listening_ ,” Damara gritted her teeth a little.

 

“Then please, continue: I am all ears.”

 

“Aradia was under the pretense that being a famous, well-loved celebrity put her above the consequences of her actions.  The yellow-blood was under the pretense that Aradia loved him, and so he was willing to do anything for her.  Both of them were under the pretense that they were the significant parts of their own stories, that their happiness and their fortune was ever an important achievement worth pursuing.”

 

“So what was the important part?”

 

“See?  Now you are asking the right questions,” Damara says gleefully.  “It’s been years.  My memory isn’t what it used to be.  I can’t tell you everything you wanted to know, because I simply don’t care to remember.  But I can tell you this: forces were at work then that continue to shape the story of Rapture.  Asking questions like, ‘what was Aradia doing the day she was killed’ obscure the real truth.”

 

“Can you tell me what truth that is, if it’s even still the truth?” Rose asks.  Damara’s eyes twinkle in the lamplight, and her expression is hard and triumphant.

 

“Ask me the important question,” she says.  Rose thinks to herself for a moment.

 

“I’m sorry, do you mind if I talk aloud to myself?”

 

Damara shrugs, eyes still narrowed at Rose.

 

“Sollux and Aradia.  The murder at first glance would seem to be a lover’s quarrel, judging solely from the relationship of the murderer and victim.  Both parties partook in criminal activities, however, so that adds another dimension of intrigue.  But Sollux made a mistake, and trusted the wrong people, and so he and Aradia somehow fell out of touch.  Sollux, resentful and heartbroken, kills her.  But is it that simple?  Hang on.”

 

Rose directs her next question to Damara.

 

“Rapture’s criminal underbelly has more than one player.  Sollux worked for Serket’s gang.  Which one did Aradia work for?”

 

“ _Not_ Serket,” Damara said, smiling evilly.

 

“Oh but this is interesting,” Rose says, wonderingly.  “Only Serket would be the kind of woman to threaten wearing someone’s skin as an article of clothing, because she’s that sort of crazy.  But what if Sollux and Aradia weren’t working together at all?  But wait.”

 

Rose frowns.

 

“Sollux did what he did because he was helping a friend.  So then, Sollux must’ve sold out or been compromised, and that’s how he came to work for Serket.  Which means that would put them against each other as soon as Serket began to cull the competition.  Aradia would think she was safe because she was a public figure, but to someone like Serket that’s an invitation to send a message.  Which means that Aradia was dead the moment Sollux sold her out, and not the other way around.”

 

Damara sits there attentively while Rose pieces the puzzle together.  Rose’s head whips up so that she meets the troll’s gaze with a piercing one of her own.

 

“You knew about all of this,” she accuses.

 

“Of course I did,” Damara says.  “I watched my ‘sister’ gallivanting around with paupers and criminals and warned her it would end badly.  Did she listen?  No.  And for her arrogance, she paid the price.”

 

“But what about the other organization?  Who were they?”

 

Damara shrugs.

 

“How should I know?  I wasn’t involved.  Just bystander.  I never asked, and she never said, but it didn’t take a genius.  Now, I have said enough.  Go and write your story,” Damara gets up and starts shooing Rose out of the apartment.  Rose protests, but soon finds herself outside in the Mercury Suites atrium.

 

“Good luck, Ace Reporter,” Damara says mockingly, closing the door with a snap.  Rose hears the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place, and sighs.

 

“Well, that was interesting.  And it clears up a few things about the murder.  But who else…?  I need to talk to Jane.”

 

 

***

 

 

Terezi Pyrope sits by herself in a locked office in Rapture Central Control.  Outside, Jane and Spade have terse words.

 

“I’m givin’ you five minutes to make her sing, and then I’m really gonna go to work on her, you got that?  So make it good.”

 

“I would’ve thought you’d already done that.  What’s the matter, can’t hit a woman?”

 

“Remember what I said about those kinds of accusations?  We were told to treat her all respectful like, which is exactly what we did.  Hearts and Diamonds can’t get her to talk; she wants you.”

 

“Perhaps your cronies didn’t ask her nicely?”

 

“I swear, if you weren’t my boss’s sister,” Slick grumbles before opening the door and letting Jane in.  She steps inside, listening for the click of the lock before turning to the troll in front of her.  There’s a spark of recognition.

 

“You!”

 

“Y3S!  M3!” Terezi says, removing her horn-rimmed glasses and smiling broadly to reveal a row of shark-like teeth.  She wears a turquoise suit and keeps her hair in a stylish bob, but it’s most certainly the same woman from the Fighting Nitram’s.

 

“You asked me if there was anything you could do for me,” she goes on to say, pulling a cigarette and a lighter out.  “And as it turns out, there is!”

 

“Well, I’m supposed to get you to tell me everything that you know about the Serket smuggling ring.  So it looks like we can help each other out, doesn’t it?”

 

Terezi ponders the question, inhaling deeply before replying.

 

“Well, I’m not so sure about TH4T.  But, we can compromise.”

 

“What’s there to compromise on?  You tell me enough to get Serket arrested, I help you out with your matter, and we all go home happy.”

 

“QU1D PRO QUO, Inspector Crocker!” Terezi exclaims.  “I’m not convinced the information you want is worth the favors I want, but I understand that you’re a busy woman, so I want to cut you a deal.  One favor for three questions, and these favors are binding.”

 

“Binding?”

 

“Yes, binding.  As in, if you should fail to keep up your end of the bargain, I have people who can make your life…very short indeed!”

 

Jane suppresses a shudder at Terezi’s cackle.  Jane doesn’t fancy herself a gambler, and knowing the company Terezi keeps quickly dispels the notion of calling her bluff.

 

“Fine, what’s your first favor?”

 

“One!  Cease your employment with Egbert Industries forthwith,” Terezi says.  “Do not contract with them again, and have no interactions with anyone employed therein that could be construed as professional.”

 

“Done,” Jane says.  “Now I get three questions.”

 

Terezi nods, spreading her hands invitingly.

 

“What’s your relationship to Vriska Serket?”

 

“I’m her lawyer.  Next question?”

 

“Now hang on, you have to elaborate on that,” Jane says indignantly.

 

“My response satisfied the question.  If you want me to spill the beans, you’re going to have to do better,” Terezi’s grin widens, if that’s at all possible.

 

“Citing examples, what services do you provide her as her lawyer?  Be as specific as possible.”

 

“Better!” Terezi cackles.  “I’ll make a proper investigator out of you yet!  As Vriska’s lawyer, it’s my job to advise her on legal matters such as contracts, leases, loans, and any criminal activities she plans to engage in.  These include, but are not limited to, smuggling, murder, intimidation, coercion, libel, and real estate.  In particular, I oversaw several transactions in the Neptune’s Bounty district to the effect that my client now owns, sometimes indirectly, all properties not under the tenure of Egbert Industries or Ampora Whaling.”

 

“That’s what you were doing at Fighting Nitram’s?  Rufioh said he’d seen you on multiple occasions with Serket brass.  Is that what you were doing?”

 

“Two questions, Jane!  Stop leading the witness!”

 

“I wasn’t—!”

 

“To answer your first question,” Terezi interrupts.  “I was at the Fighting Nitram’s that night waiting for _you_.”

 

“But I was looking for you!”

 

“Yes, I knew that.”

 

“Then why did you wait so long to come forward?  You could’ve put this deal to me at any time!”

 

“And that’s just it, Inspector,” Terezi says.  “Time!  Now, I believe that’s another favor you owe me, and two more questions for me to answer.”

 

“Oh great,” Jane says.  “So you were counting that one.”

 

“No free lunches!  Where do you think this is, New York?  Now, for the next favor you owe me: I want you to do some grunt work for me, the details of which we can discuss later, but which I assure you will not take much time, and won’t consist of any…CR1M1N4L…activities.”

 

“Can I take you at your word on that?”

 

“Certainly!  The only crime in Rapture is smuggling, after all!  It could be anything!  Now ask your questions, Jane, and do be careful this time.”

 

Terezi winks at Jane behind her glasses, and Jane can feel her temper straining at the leash.

 

“What evidence is there to support the allegation that Vriska Serket is a smuggler?”

 

“She has a number of hidden coves where she keeps submersibles scattered throughout the city.  In a city with only one law, what purpose would there be to keep one’s business operations a secret?  Simply that they’re illegal!”

 

“Where are these coves?”

 

“One can be accessed through a hidden door in the cold storage facility underneath the principle Serket Seafood & Treasures fishery; one is accessible via steam pipes that connect the fish market, the principle fishery, and the wharfs owned by Ampora Whaling; two can only be found via submersible expedition around the plain between the trench and the city; one contains Vriska’s private submarine, and as such is connected directly to her main office; one is less of a cove and more of a submerged docking area near the airlock into Siren Alley; one is in no less an august place as Egbert Industries itself; and finally, the last hidden cove, the one place that is so closely guarded that the only people who know its location are the ones that built it and Vriska herself…”

 

Jane sits forward, pen over casebook, ready to write down the name.  She is unconsciously biting her tongue as she holds her breath.  Terezi draws out the moment a second longer.

 

“Persephone.”

 

There are a few moments of silence.  Jane has written out the name without really thinking about it, waiting as the knowledge sinks in.  She draws a blank.

 

“I don’t…”

 

The door to the office bursts open and a livid looking Spades Slick stalks inside.

 

“Alright, ladies, playtime’s over.”

 

“But I’m not finished, Slick!” Jane protests as she’s hauled out of her chair and dragged into the corridor.

 

“My people will be in touch, Inspector,” Terezi calls as the door slams shut.  Spade glances down at her casebook.  On the top page, Jane has written the word ‘Persephone’ and circled it a few times.  He snatches the book out of her hand and tears the page out.

 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Jane demands.

 

“You heard me, playtime is over,” Slick hisses, drawing a knife out.  “Do I have to make the point any clearer to you?”

 

Jane jumps in fright.  Slick narrows his eyes at her, holding the casebook out of reach, the knife aimed directly at her.  She turns and runs, out the corridor, out of Rapture Central Control, and doesn’t stop until she’s reached the comfort of the metro station. 

 

She arrives at her flat and immediately locks the place down.  She checks every room (there are only three), under her bed, in her closets.  No one.  Then she turns her lights on and collapses in an armchair in her living room.  She wishes she had a drink on hand, but can’t work up the moral fortitude to get one.  She sees that someone’s left a voice recording on her answerphone, and rewinds the tape to hear it.

 

“Jane, this is Rose.  Listen, I’ve just spoken with Damara Megido and I’ve figured it out.  I’ve been approaching this case entirely wrong: there was never anything mysterious about the murder itself, but behind the scenes there were hidden forces at work that I’m trying to understand.  There was a second gang involved—Serket’s not the only one making moves.  I’m going to publish what I know about the murder, if only to achieve some closure on it, but you and I have much to do.  Call me as soon as you are able.  I will be in all evening.”

 

Jane is about to pick up the phone when it begins to ring, startling her.  Shaking a little, she answers.

 

“Hello, Rose?”

 

“No, this is John.”  Jane heaves a sigh.

 

“What is it, John?”

 

“We’ve got reservations for dinner tonight.  Did you forget?”

 

Jane sighs again.

 

“Jane, are you there?  Are you alright?  Slick told me you were looking unwell after the interrogation.  I understand if you want to cancel.”

 

“No, John, I’ll be there,” Jane says.  “Just.  When is it?”

 

“Seven o’clock at the Kashmir.  And it’s a birthday dinner, so please dress nicely.”

 

“Right.  I’ll see you then.”

 

“Bye, Jane!”

 

Jane hangs up the phone and looks at the clock hanging on the wall.  Six p.m.  She has time to call Rose before she goes to get ready, but first she needs to see to that drink.

 

“This is Rose.”

 

“Rose, this is Jane,” Jane says.

 

“Good, you got my message.”

 

“Yes, and I’ve got some more developments to report.  But we’ll have to act quickly.”

 

“I can be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

 

“Well, I can’t, I’ve got dinner plans tonight.  It’s…complicated family stuff, but how about we meet afterwards.  Usual place?  Nine o’clock?  You can wear the domino this time.”

 

“You’ll pardon me for slipping into colloquialism for the moment, but: Hell.  Fucking.  Yes.”

 

Jane laughs.

 

“Be ready to get wet,” Jane warns.

 

“Jane, I thought we were being professional.  You even told me I could wear the domino.”

 

“I mean wet with seawater!  Stop trying to make everything into innuendo!”

 

“Well, I would, try that is, but you make it ever so easy for me.  Promise I’ll behave tonight, of course.”

 

“That’s all I ask,” Jane says.  “Also, we might have a run-in with the Midnight Crew.  Can you shoot?”

 

“‘Can I shoot’ she asks.  Does a fish swim?  Does a bird fly?  Does a reporter not venture into the line of fire daily for the sake of extracting truth?”

 

“Do you have a gun,” Jane asks, more pointedly.

 

“Of course.  You won’t need to look after me, Jane, I promise you.”

 

“Good.  I’ll see you at…let’s call it ten o’clock instead.”

 

“Goodbye, Jane.”

 

They dined in the solarium of the Kashmir that evening, under the statue of Atlas holding the world.  The windows of the Kashmir afford the most iconic views of the city imaginable, with a one hundred and eighty degree panorama.  Jane had arrived in a sky-blue tunic, the nicest dress she owned, and as such had few occasions to wear.  She’d met John at the door, and the smile he greeted her with was equal parts warm and apologetic.  Conversation was strained, and so they’d simply exchanged pleasantries until they’d both had a bit of drink in them.  They spent the next hour reminiscing about their father, which was interrupted only by their food.

 

“Jane, what happened to us?” John asks after a moment’s silence.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It’s just, we never talk anymore, like this.  Not about business, or trouble in the city, just talking about old times, or things that we’re fond of.”

 

“Well, we’re always busy, and there are a lot of pressing concerns for both of us,” Jane says, a little self-consciously.  “And we’ve grown apart.  There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just something that happens when you’re grown up and in different lines of work.”

 

“But we don’t even just call each other anymore.”

 

Jane purses her lips.

 

“I did,” she says a little quietly.  “Don’t you remember?  We had a huge fight over it years ago: I’d call your office for a chat, and your secretary kept telling me you were too busy to take the call.  I was so angry with you!  I thought, ‘what’s he doing that he’s too busy to answer the phone for his own sister?’”

 

“I think the problem was that Clubs never told me you were on the line.  He was always a funny guy, but not really great to handle paperwork.”

 

“I think if I’d just talked to you about it in person we could’ve avoided that whole episode,” Jane muses.  She swirls around some expensive merlot in her glass as she does so.

 

“Yeah.  We’d solve a lot of miscommunications that way.”

 

John sounds sad, like what he’s saying isn’t relevant only to the conversation they’re having.  They lapse into silence for a few more minutes, Jane taking sneak peaks at John’s watch.  She still has time before her meeting with Rose.

 

“About Terezi,” John begins.

 

“What about her?”

 

“Are you okay?” John asks.  “She didn’t threaten you, did she?”

 

“No!  Well, alright, she threatened me a little,” Jane admits.  “But really, I’m fine.  She turned out to be a surprisingly willing informant.”

 

“Slick tells me that she was trying to play some sort of mind games with you.”

 

Jane narrows her eyes at mention of Slick.  She then remembers her deal with Terezi.

 

“Listen, John.  I can’t work for you anymore,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s…” Jane flounders for a moment.  She can’t tell John she was threatened/promised a self-avowed mobster.  “It’s Spade.  I can’t work with him.  He’s abrasive, and threatening, and I just don’t feel comfortable around him.”

 

“But that’s not a problem, Jane,” John says.  “I just won’t send the two of you out together.  You don’t have to see him, and you don’t have to quit.”

 

“John, do you really think you can control him when he’s not in your office,” Jane asks.

 

“Well, no,” John says slowly.  “But I trust him not to do anything untoward to my own sister.”

 

“Oh, John.  If only you knew what people say about him.”

 

“What?  What do people say?”

 

“Look, I’m not going into it.  I’d only make myself angry.  But just, trust me, this is the only way.”

 

John looks downcast at the news, but nods.  Jane folds her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold.  Maybe she should tell him about the knife…?

 

“I was always a private eye, anyway,” Jane goes on, laughing a little to cover her nervousness.  “I mean, it’s not like I was completely dependent on you.”

 

“That’s good,” John says.  “Although, you know if you need money, you can always ask.”

 

“John,” Jane says reprovingly.  “I just said I didn’t need any.”

 

“Still, family’s family.  We need to look out for each other.”

 

“Anyway, I’ve already got a few cases on call.  I’ll probably be busier than ever these next few weeks,” Jane says.

 

“Oh yeah?  What cases?”  John asks, leaning forward with an interested spark in his eye.

 

“Oh, you know, cheating husbands, missing children.  Corporate fraud.  There’s bound to be plenty of that, these days.  Oh, what time is it?”

 

“It’s nine o’clock,” John says, checking his watch.

 

“And speaking of, I’ve got to dash.  I’m meeting with a client at ten,” Jane quickly gets up.

 

“Oh, let me get your coat.”

 

“No, no need to be a gentleman, John.  I’ve got it.  Just,” Jane says, stumbling a little as she stands.  She’s had quite a lot of wine in a short time.  “Enjoy the rest of your night!”

 

She waves, and walks briskly out of the Kashmir, stumbling a little on the stairs to the door.

 

 

***

 

 

Dave and Karkat stand at the Minerva’s Den station of the Atlantic Express.  The platform is empty but for scattered paper and bits of rubble.  The door to the main atrium is boarded shut until Karkat has his way with it.  They make their way into the quiet, cathedral like space.  Dave stumbles a little on a loose board, but catches himself.

 

“I’m okay.”

 

“Good.  Where are we going?”

 

“Zahhak Robotics.  It’s somewhere to the left up here.”

 

The sign for the place is on, but the shutters are down, and by the garbage that’s accumulated around them they have been for a while.  Karkat prizes the shutters open with the crowbar, and he and Dave slip inside.  Past the security desk is a hall filled with cutting edge robots of about a year ago, each one accompanied by a cheery placard stating its name and purpose.  Karkat looks over a few of them.

 

“Vacu-suc?  For that deep carpet clean.  Who’d want to buy this garbage?”

 

“Wealthy people, lonely housewives,” Dave lists off.  “Saves them from having to pay the maid.”

 

“Yeah, and when their electric bill jumps through the roof they can watch their bold new purchase suck up the savings.”

 

“Nice use of pun, there.”

 

“Thank you.  I was a renowned punster in my youth,” Karkat says, voice dripping in sarcasm.

 

“And it knows verbal irony, too!  You, sir, are a one of a kind troll.”

 

“I could’ve told you that,” Karkat snaps.  “And fuck you, what do you know about it?”

 

Dave shrugs, moving past the displays to the employees only area.

 

“Let’s see,” Dave thinks.  “Design studio or machine shop?”

 

“Dave, it’s obvious no one has been here in weeks, maybe months,” Karkat says.  “What are you even hoping to find?  This is a rusty garbage heap full of tetanus and false promises.”

 

“Clues, my good troll,” Dave says, choosing to walk down the corridor toward the design studio.  “We’re looking for clues.”

 

“Okay, would you kindly be more specific for those of us not in on your secret plan to get us both killed?”

 

“Would you relax?  This was where my brother worked.  If I know that asshole, and I grew up with him so I’d like to think that I picked up a few things, we’ll probably find some equally mysterious recording buried in the junk here, or maybe a talking robot will give us the answers.  Point is, there are three places in the city he’d be, and it just so happened this one was closer than the apartment.”

 

The studio is lined with benches, chalkboards, and racks of tools of every shape.  It is in a state of neglect, dust covering every surface, every screen, every switchboard.  Power supplies and other devices line one wall, and Karkat can’t think of enough uses for them all.  Dave ignores this and moves to one bench in particular.

 

“This is where he worked,” Dave says, sitting down at it and rummaging through a set of drawers built into the wall below it.  Tools, rolled up blueprints, pencils, one drawer full of puppets for some unfathomable reason.  Dave removes them all gingerly, scouring the drawer for anything useful, but finds nothing.

 

“Fucking typical,” he says.  “Stand back.”

 

Karkat moves back as he throws the puppets up, cutting them to pieces with his sword before they can hit the ground.  Karkat’s eyes are popping.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“See anything in the remains?”

 

“What the fuck, Dave.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an expert swordsman, phallic pun here,” Dave says.  “Stay with me, dude, I need your help.”

 

Karkat pokes among the scattered stuffing but comes up with nothing.  Dave snorts and gets back to searching drawers.  Karkat pokes around some of the other workstations, looking at devices half-built and forgotten.  Several minutes later, Dave slams the last drawer shut in disgust.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Well, maybe not,” Dave says, opening a few of the drawers to take out blueprints.  “It might be left in one of his machines.  We’ve gotta go to the shop now, speaking of tetanus.”

 

Karkat follows Dave to the machineshop, and as soon as he enters he knows something isn’t right.  His ears are pricked, but he can’t consciously hear anything out of place.

 

“Dave,” he says quietly.  “I don’t think we should be here.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dave says, less quietly.  “This place is empty, you can see it yourself.”

 

In fact Karkat couldn’t—the shop is enormous, and has a number of bays set into the walls that aren’t fully visible from where he stands.  On top of that, even _his_ eyes can’t penetrate the low light very far.  Karkat suddenly feels a stab of sympathy for Dave’s plight.

 

“Something just doesn’t feel right, is all.  Holy shit what was that?!”

 

Karkat thinks he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadow flitting across a high window.  But there’s nothing.  Nevertheless, he can feel himself starting to hyperventilate.

 

“Karkat, calm down and just help me find this shit.”

 

Movement again, and Karkat’s jumping nearly out of his skin.  He hears the impatience in Dave’s voice, but he can’t make Dave understand because Dave is a human and humans have the survival instinct of blind puppies.  In retrospect the blindness comparison is pretty awful, Karkat thinks.

 

He hears a small thump, like someone landing from a fall.

 

He looks up and sees a person standing behind Dave, who is busy chastising Karkat and doesn’t notice.

 

“Dave, behind—!”

 

“What?”

 

Dave turns as the person plunges a hook into his abdomen.  He gasps as it’s wrenched out, splattering a line of blood across the floor.  Karkat fumbles with the pistol, but when he gets it out the attacker has vanished.

 

From sight.  A mad laugh reverberates throughout the shop.

 

“Dave!  Holy fuck!”

 

Karkat runs forward, checking over his shoulder every second until he reaches Dave’s prone form.

 

“Don’t move, Jegus, don’t move,” Karkat says.  “Come on, stay with me Dave.”

 

Karkat rolls Dave over so that he can see the bleeding gash.  A low whine rises from the back of his throat as he tears his coat off and puts pressure on the wound.  He hears the laughter again.

 

“Little baby red blood, sitting all alone,” the voice is singsong, and moving.  Karkat tries to keep up, pistol in hand, ready to shoot.  “Dry your eyes, gene freak!  You can’t see me through all that RED!”

 

At that word, the voice is directly overhead, and Karkat looks up to see a troll dropping from the ceiling.  He points and shoots before he has time to think about it, and the body falls on him with a loud ‘whump!’.

 

He breathes.

 

Then pushes the heavy form off of him.  It looks dead, but Karkat isn’t sure.  It’s also wearing a mask, which Karkat removes, immediately wishing he hadn’t—the face is mutilated beyond recognition: boils, cysts, grafts, you name it.  Dave groans on the ground, and Karkat rushes back to his side.

 

“Shit, Dave, what do I do?  Help me out here.”

 

“You’re asking me?” Dave says weakly, face screwed up in agony.  “Find the fucking first aid kit.”

 

Karkat runs to the door—he thinks he saw the box containing medical supplies mounted on the wall near there.  Thankfully, there are bandages and painkillers aplenty.  No sutures, however, and Karkat isn’t confident in his ability to sew anyway.

 

He turns around, and finds the body of his attacker isn’t there.

 

Slowly, he walks back toward Dave, listening hard for ragged breathing or the click of hook on metal.  He hears a whirling sound, and looks up in time to dodge a thrown hook out of the darkness.  He shoots twice in that direction, running back to Dave as the attacker appears again, leaping at Karkat.  He shoots again, shattering the thing’s skull, and has the sense to jump aside this time.  The body crumples to the ground after striking the wall.

 

He goes back to Dave and gives him a shot of morphine before bandaging up the wound.

 

“I’m sorry, this is the best I can do for now,” Karkat says.  “No thread.”

 

“Fuck.  Back in the studio.  Bro’s desk.  Drawer with the puppets.”

 

Karkat thinks for a moment which drawer Dave’s talking about, and then runs to it.  He gets there, breathing hard, and forgets immediately which drawer he was looking for.  He starts yanking them out of the wall, throwing them aside if they don’t have what he wants.  Eventually he finds one containing needle and thread, and sprints back to the machine shop.  Dave is still breathing, but the smell of blood is getting heady, so Karkat, fingers trembling, unwraps the stained bandages and tries to sew Dave back together.

 

He finishes, hands covered in blood, no longer shaking, but certainly in shock.  Dave’s breathing has slowed worryingly, and Karkat knows that he couldn’t do anything for the internal bleeding.  He doesn’t even know human physiology at all, and can’t begin to guess what might’ve gotten damaged.

 

“Kar…”

 

Dave whispers, coming up from his morphine-induced sleep.

 

“Karkat.  Does that thing…got any…ADAM?”

 

“What?  ADAM?”

 

“Yeah…comes in…red tubes…fucking…works miracles…’n shit…”

 

Karkat looks dubiously over at the corpse.  Warily, he grabs his crowbar and sneaks over to it, poking it with his feet.  When it doesn’t jump back to life, he begins rifling through the pockets of the filthy overalls it was wearing.  In one of them he finds a hypo full of faintly glowing red syrup.  This must be what Dave was talking about, he thinks, looking it over. 

 

He brings it back to Dave, who is passed out stone cold, and breathing shallower than ever.

 

“Dave, I need you for a second,” Karkat says, gently nudging him.  “Just.  Goddamn it, Dave what the fuck am I supposed to do with this shit?  Inject it into you?  Where the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

 

Karkat flounders about for a moment, rife with indecision.  Should he use an arm?  Maybe just inject it into the wound?  But then how the fuck would that fix anything?  Karkat has no idea.  He was exiled to the Drop long before the whole ADAM craze, and largely ignored the people, humans and trolls, that began showing up from the city, strung out on the stuff and too incoherent to beg for scraps.

 

He takes another deep breath.  All he knows is that Dave is going to die if he just does nothing.  He goes with the arm, gently inserting the needle into the vein, and pushing…

 

 

***

 

 

“Whale, gentlemen.  It hooks like I’ve won.  I’ll be back in a week to pick up my coat, thank you very much.”

 

Meenah smiles winningly at Crowbar and the eleven other members of The Felt before turning to leave.  Snowman hasn’t stopped singing, and flashes Meenah a wink.  Meenah nods and exits the lounge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, it's a game-changer. I'll let you know when I've figured out what we're playing.


	6. Truth Is In The Blood

_Recording: Egbert vs. Vantas – Religious Rights_

_EGBERT: “I don’t see a problem with people having their own beliefs.  If we all believed the same thing, then that would cause a lot of issues.  People once believed the world was flat, and that if they sailed too far they would fall off the edge.  It was thanks to people whose beliefs differed from that majority that the modern world was even made possible.  I have always encouraged a diversity of opinion in matters of public life in Rapture, and will continue to do so._

_“But, what’s even worse than everyone sharing a single belief is when one person or organization_ forces _everyone to share that belief.  I founded Rapture because I thought that we should be free of the fear that we would be hunted and destroyed for the things that we believed.  The worst conflicts in history were started because one man or one church believed it was their divine right to convert or kill anyone who believed differently.  It strikes me as odd, therefore, that such a fuss is being made over the rights of any organization that has proved itself to be dangerous enough to fuel the fires of war.  Religion as such is alright, but the church has no place in Rapture.”_

_VANTAS: “You occupy a seat of privilege.  You are young, healthy, a mentally capable member of the city’s elite.  I do not doubt you had a family and friends there to support you in your times of anguish and need._

_“From your lofty position, you do not see how the people of Rapture ache under the weight of their burdens, longing for solace or purpose in their day-to-day lives.  You do not see how separation and the persecution of a faith they could freely hold on the surface breeds anxiety and despair.  A church, temple, or mosque is not a malevolent force bent on domination.  It is a symbol of hope and healing, a symbol that these people are consistently denied by your narrow-minded and hypocritical stance the institution as such._

_“Ask yourself, Egbert: is Rapture not a symbol?  Rapture was founded on the beliefs of reason and fairness, and the exaltation of these values at the expense of all else, constituting no less a divine verdict of vengeance than the crosses you seize and burn.”_

 

***

 

 

Karkat remembers clearly the last time someone showed him any sort of decency.  The two met up on Coney Island—Karkat was recently laid off a job at the packing plant, and wasn’t in the mood for merriment, but the other insisted, and so he went.  They met on the boardwalk around noon, a fresh wind off the sea blowing back the stench of New York harbor.  The sun was high, and the sky was clear, and despite the wind the air was warm.  A week previously, shortly before being laid off, Karkat had overheard something interesting in the cafeteria during lunch.  Two trolls sat in the corner, conversing in low tones; Karkat might not’ve heard if he hadn’t also been sitting alone nearby.

 

“Real hush-hush.”

 

“Egbert Industries?  _How_ short notice?”

 

“You’d better believe it’s the real deal.  They’re takin’ all kinds: trolls, chessmen, even a few gogdamn leprechauns.”

 

“Something called the Atlantic Project.”

 

On the boardwalk, Karkat stood on the railing, gazing out to sea.  The other one stood nearby, straight-backed, eating an iced lollipop.  After a few minutes like that, he tapped Karkat and offered him another one.

 

“Part of the tradition, as much as it stems purely from a stratified system based on tensions between members of a privileged elite over control and exploitation of labor, of coming to Coney Island is partaking of the refreshments.”

 

The other laughed at his own statement, which Karkat ignored, accepting the lolli and returning to his vigil of the water.  The waves lapped at the rocks on the shore, and the pylons of the pier; gulls floated on the water, picking at seaweed and taking to the air when startled by a dolphin.  Karkat’s ears perked at their indignant screams.

 

“Look, dolphins!”

 

“You’ve never been to the ocean before, have you?”

 

“Once,” Karkat corrected.  “When we emigrated.”

 

“But you were seasick most of the voyage and didn’t get outside until we were arriving at Liberty Island.”

 

“And then it was in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm!”

 

“You were furious that you couldn’t clearly see Lady Liberty.  You badgered absolutely everyone who would listen that it wasn’t fair that it should rain when you wanted to see the statue.  Everyone ignored you.”

 

“Except for you, and you told me to be grateful we made it in one piece.”

 

They lapsed into silence.  Karkat took a few bites of his lolli, regretting the brain freeze, but savoring the crisp, cold flavor.  The boardwalk was all but empty—everyone else, it seemed, was elsewhere for lunch.

 

“Thank you,” Karkat says.

 

“Hm?”

 

“For inviting me out here.  This is nice.”

 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.  I want you to always remember the importance of family.  When everything else fails, you’ve always got us to count on, rain or shine.  Bearing in mind, of course, the limitations of applying a term so deeply rooted in human culture to our species, which arrives at analogous social group constructions in a radically different fashion.  Still, I suppose given the genetic similarities we share, the term applies.”

 

Karkat smiled at that, flicking a bit of ice at the other one.  He jumped a little as the ice hit him, wiping it off his bright red sweater absently, as if dusting himself down.  Karkat mulled over the family spiel.  It was true, though; he could always rely on the other one to be there for him in a pinch.  How many times had Karkat been bailed out of trouble by his timely intervention?  It almost didn’t bear thinking about.

 

So it was with certainty in the answer he would get when he asked:

 

“I’m going to work for Egbert Industries.  I’m going to join them on their so-called Atlantic Project.  Do you want to come with me?”

 

 

***

 

 

Feferi is in no mood to deal with Meenah when the young troll finally sneaks back into the penthouse hours after midnight.  She sits in an armchair in the drawing room, pink cigarette holder in hand, ash-tray half-full of used butts when the door quietly opens and the shadowy figure of her heir steps into the foyer.  She waits, like a predator ready to spring an ambush.  Meenah hangs up her jacket (W)(-ER-E DID S)(-E G-ET A N-EW COAT!?), and makes her way into the kitchen to grab a carton of orange juice from the fridge.  Feferi watches as she drinks half of it down, replacing it with a clatter of Tupperware (W–ELL, T)(AT –EXPLAINS WHY ALL TH–E JUIC–E K–E–EPS VANIS)(ING).  Finally, she makes the attempt to slip back into her room, prompting Feferi to strike.

 

“Good to sea you’ve mermaid it home on time.  I was beginning to worry.”

 

Meenah jumps, muffling a string of curses.  Feferi waits for her to notice her shadow in the chair before turning the lamp next to it on.  Her expression is a careful mix of disappointed, livid, and pitying. 

 

“When you didn’t arrive at the dinner, I suspected that placing my trust in Latula had been a mistake.  When I spoke with the concierge my suspicions were confirmed.  And when I called my assistant to have her float me the amount I’ve spent keeping your scandals from the newsporpoises, T)(IS MONT)( ALON–E, I began to wonder why I even bother, since you clearly have no consideration for anything but your own pleashore!”

 

Meenah stands there silently as Feferi rails, and has no immediate response.  For a moment, neither says anything.

 

“Was that all?” Meenah asks.  “Cuz I gotta take a piss.”

 

Feferi smiles then, and nods at Meenah.

 

“Great,” she says, brushing past Feferi and closing the door to her suite with a snap.  Feferi waits until she hears the bathroom door open before standing and retrieving the key to Meenah’s room from her handbag.  Her pace sedate, she places the key in the lock of the closed door, and turns.  The lock clicks.

 

“We will continue this conversation in the morning, Meenah,” Feferi says through the door.  She doesn’t wait to hear Meenah’s response.  It’s been a long night, and she needs a stiff drink, and then sleep.

 

Meenah doesn’t wait until morning.

 

“Latula, you there?” she whispers into her room phone.

 

“Urgh, what is it?” Latula sounds the better part of a sick drunk, which is a complication Meenah finds irksome.

  
  
“The witch was waitin’ for me!  She’s locked me up!  You gotta help me bust outta this place!”

 

“Wouldn’t that, like, make your mom even more angry?”

 

“Whale, yeah,” Meenah says.  “But she’s a big girl, she can deal.  Besides, I’ve got somefin in the works that’s better than her whole damn Beforan Foundation.”

 

“Oh my god, you didn’t,” Latula says, excitement making the better part of illness for a brief moment.

 

“You’re talkin’ to the fourteenth member of the one and only Felt gang,” Meenah says proudly.  “All I had to do was kick a dude’s bass at pool.”

 

“Girl, that’s some supreme angling you did there.  Good for you!”

 

“Yeah, fellow named Clover explained it all: they get me a lame green felt suit, I pull a couple of jobs to show I’m legit, and I’m haulin’ bank.”

 

“Wicked.”

  
“Hey, what kinda scents you pick up about that White Knight guy?”

 

“Oh, nothing, actually.  Nobody seemed to know anything.”

 

Meenah shakes her head.

 

“Cryin’ shame.  Now get up here and help me bust loose.”

 

“Nuh-uh, girl, you forget your mom’s state-of-the-art security system?  It’s six kinds of maximum security up there after hours!”

 

“That’s why you let me give you the codes, so you can get in without trippin’ the alarm!”

 

“You think you’re mom’s not gonna change those the minute she locks you up?”

 

Meenah pauses.  The witch is crazy enough that she might do just that.  Suddenly, Meenah hears a clicking sound over the phone.

 

“Hey, Latula, you hear that?”

 

“Yeah.  Sounds like when an audio recorded hits the end of a tape, you know?”

 

“Holy kelp, she’s fuckin’ tapped my phone.”

 

Meenah throws the receiver down.  It lands on the hook and bounces off to the floor.  She stares at it for a couple of minutes, not daring to breathe.  She can still hear the clicking coming through the earpiece, and gingerly replaces the phone on the hook.  Picking up one of her tridents, she smashes the thing to pieces.

 

“I ain’t gonna be locked up like a clam in a cage,” Meenah snarls at the wall.  She goes into her bathroom, where she has a bay window that overlooks downtown Rapture.  She taps it with the tip of her trident, listening to the dull sound of the echo.  She grins.

 

She winds up, and hurls the gold-pronged instrument with all her force at the window, which cracks.  Seawater starts to leak in through microbreaches in the glass, causing more cracks, bigger cracks.  There’s an enormous sound, a crash and a rush of water, and the window implodes sending glass shards and a wave of ocean directly into Meenah, who is thrown against the wall.  The trident is embedded into it next to her face.

 

The pressure takes a while to subside, but Meenah fills her lungs with water and takes a deep breath.  The water around her is a little pink from being cut by the glass, but she’s none the worse for it.  Yanking the trident out of the wall, she swims a ways out of Athena’s Glory, turning back to look at the damage.  Fully half the building’s lights of gone out, and she can see water spilling into the streets below.  She shrugs to herself, and swims off into the night.

 

 

***

 

 

 Tavros Nitram is a failure.  This is what he thinks as he wanders the promenade of Dionysus Park, drunk.  All around him he sees beautiful art, innovative art—statues of folded metal that represent dancers, canvases of the abstract, he can hear phonographs playing recordings of modern poetry that puts his own verses to shame.  Never before has his confidence been so low as now.

 

He passes by a café where a revel is taking place, but can’t bring himself to join in.  He’s always so awkward at those things, and never knows what to say.  And if someone should make some sort of concupiscent advance on him, heaven forbid he should know how to respond!  Nine sweeps old, and never been kissed (willingly).

 

“Not knowing love, uh, not knowing, grief, the empty shell waits, for the return of its hermit crab.”

 

“That was beautiful!” a drunken reveler has stumbled out of the café and stands there gobsmacked as Tavros recites his latest piece.  “Say again!”

 

“But, uh, it wouldn’t be, the same, you know?  The moment’s, gone,” Tavros says, apologetically.

 

“But I want to remember it,” the reveler insists, stumbling over to drape themselves over Tavros.  “I want to remember the shell.  How’s about you come back to mine, little hermit crab?”

  
“That’s, very flattering to be sure,” Tavros says, panic in his tone.  “But, that’s not really, what I intended, when, you know, I composed it.”

 

“Mm, so you’re the shell to someone else’s hermit crab?  Wait here, I think I know just the guy to help you out,” the reveler plants a firm kiss on Tavros’s neck and flops back into the party.  Tavros is too stunned to move, even though his mind is screaming for him to escape while he has this chance.

 

He gets his legs working just as he sees the reveler again, talking to a small, weedy human.  Tavros absconds quickly, finding a little nook by the park to hide in.  He pulls his legs up to his chin, and thinks that the reveler wasn’t completely wrong.  He fishes an audio recorder out of his pocket.

 

_Tavros, I love everyone equally, and platonically.  I have a special duty to these people that supercedes any carnal desires I may be subject to.  You also have a duty, to inspire the people with your poetry.  The poets carry an especially difficult cultural burden; theirs are the eyes that see the flaws in society, the ears that hear the winds changing._

_But, doctor, you’re my greatest, inspiration, that is to say.  Without you, I…_

_Shoosh, Tavros.  I will always be there for you.  My love for you is the deepest, purest intellectual bond we can ever share, and I want you to remember that.  Now, dry your eyes._

Where was he now?  Tavros holds his head in his hands, fighting back a fresh wave of alcohol-induced misery.

 

The sounds of carnival music float to him gently, as if carried by tiny butterflies.  Tavros realizes he’s not hearing things, and sits up, wondering what’s going on now.  The carousal has started up, lights shining bright and gold.  No one rides it, but a clown stands near the queue next to a snack cart.  Tavros walks over to the clown: he’s tall, with goat-like horns, and his face is painted.  He wears a purple suit with polka-dotted pants and enormous shoes.

 

“HONK!” he says as Tavros draws near.  The young troll jumps.

 

“Woah, man, didn’t mean to startle you all sudden like that,” the clown says serenely.  “I was just all gettin’ my mirth on.”

 

“Um, hi,” Tavros says.

 

“Care for a spin on the wheel of miracles?” the clown asks, gesturing vaguely to the queue.

 

“No, I think, I’m too drunk,” Tavros mumbles.  “And I don’t, want to get sick, all over the ride.”

 

“No sweat, my brother,” the clown smiles.  “How about having some of my special elixir?”

 

“Your, what?”

 

The clown opens the cart.  Inside, it’s full of ADAM and plasmids in all the colors of the rainbow.  Tavros’s eyes go wide—he’s never seen this much in one place before.

 

“Go on, man,” the clown says, picking one out seemingly at random, although after an extended show of thoughtful consideration that involved more honks.  “Slam that piece.”

 

“I don’t, really, use ADAM, though.”

 

The clown presses the hypo into Tavros’s hands, holding them shut while he speaks.

 

“Sometimes, my brother, you’ve got to let go of your certainties, and appreciate all the miraculous things goin’ on all around you.  Look, you’re in a motherfuckin’ palace at the bottom of the sea?  Mother.  Fuckin’.  Miracles.”

 

The clown releases Tavros and seems to stare off into space for a while.  Tavros backs away uncertainly, pocketing the hypo.

 

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

 

“Anytime, my broad-horned motherfucker,” the clown smiles.

 

Tavros returns to his nook, noticing that he’d left the audio recorder lying there.  He smacks himself in the forehead; it would’ve been all kinds of embarrassing if someone had found that.  He pockets it, and then takes out the hypo.

 

“So, what, I just, inject it into my arm?”

 

Tavros has been to the doctor’s a few times for blood tests, and knows in principle how to do it.  He rolls up his left sleeve, taking the hypo and finding a vein.  There’s a picture on the side of the vial: a megaphone.  Gritting his teeth, he sticks the needle into his arm and depresses the plunger.

 

His veins are on fire, his arm seizes up, he yanks the spent hypo out, brown blood leaking out onto his arm, dripping onto the floor.  Tavros’s vision blurs and spins; he stumbles off the bench, back out to the carousal.  The clown is nowhere in sight, but the ride still turns, music echoing tinnily in his ear.  He falls to the ground and blacks out.

 

He comes to, and the carousal is no longer spinning.  The lights remain on, however.  There are drunken couples on some of the seahorses, or in alcoves around the room.  Tavros looks at his arm—the blood has dried, leaving a brown, crusty smear.  In his hand, he clutches a small red ball that seems to drip with something.  Tavros examines it, and then tosses it aside.  It splashes against the ground behind him.

 

There’s a sharp pain in his wrist, and then another ball oozes out of his skin bit by bit.  Tavros catches it instinctively before it falls.

 

“What the…?”

 

Without really thinking about it, he throws the ball at a couple on the carousal.  It splashes them both, and then before Tavros can stop them they fall on the nearest pair of trolls and tear them apart.  The shrieks and screams go unnoticed by many in the room, and Tavros watches a green and blue pool form around the base of the carousal.

 

Another ball is in his hand.

 

He tries to shove it back into his wrist, but all it does is splatter harmlessly in his palm, staining his shirt, only to be replaced by yet another one.  Tavros notices suddenly that his breathing has become ragged, and that he’s got a splitting headache.  When did he get so tired?

 

He wanders back up the promenade in a daze.  The revel has spilled out of the café, and Tavros has to avert his eyes from many indecent couples lining the way.  He keeps his left hand firmly in his pocket, terrified that he might accidentally brush someone with the funny little ball.

 

“Hey, there’s the shell,” the reveler from before stumbles up.  “We’ve been looking for you.”

 

“We?”

 

“Hi,” says a second reveler.  Tavros gulps at the Adonis standing before him.  “I hear you’re looking for a little hermit crab to fill your shell.”

 

“Uh, well, I…” Tavros stammers.

 

“Isn’t he cute?” the first reveler says.  “And so easy on the eyes.”

 

“Let’s say we take this little ménage-a-trois elsewhere?” the second reveler offers, nodding in the direction of the apartments.

 

“Sure, uh, let’s go,” Tavros says firmly, shocking himself.

 

Nine sweeps old, and never been kissed.  Make that, nine sweeps old and finally getting some flushed action.  The three have locked themselves in a small studio, the walls of which are lined with unfinished drawings—“That’s how you know they’re finished”—and Tavros is finding it difficult to both restrain himself from removing his left hand from his pocket, and allow himself to be seduced.

 

“Uh, how about, you two get started,” Tavros says after a few awkward minutes.  “And I’ll, just, you know, watch.”

 

The two revelers leer a little as they turn their attention fully to each other.  Tavros sits down, loosening the collar of his shirt, left hand firmly clutching a red ball in his pocket.  He is sweating, the timbre of their soft moans, the gentle caresses.  Tavros unbuttons his shirt, longing for that kind of closeness.

 

“It’s okay, little shell,” the first reveler says.  “You can take it off.”

 

Tavros suppresses a little shudder, wrestling his shirt off one-handedly, except where it won’t slide past his left wrist.  He hadn’t thought about that.

 

“Here, do you need a hand?” the first reveler asks.  They come over, sliding a hand over Tavros’s chest, and reaching into his pocket.  Slim fingers wrap around his left hand, and Tavros is the center of attention again, the second reveler having come over to wrap powerful arms around Tavros’s waist.

 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to clench up,” the second reveler says.

 

“That’s, not, uh, oh god,” Tavros says.  The first reveler has his shirt fully off, fingers clutching the outside of his fist, but he can’t let go yet.  “Uh, could you, not, um.”

 

“Shh, shh, shh,” the first reveler says.  “Just relax.  We’ll treat you right.”

 

Tavros begins to struggle a little to get his left hand out of their grip.  The others protest, and his arm somehow ends up above them all when there’s a gross squelching noise and the ball explodes, splattering the three of them.

 

“Shit,” Tavros swears.

 

With a snarl, the first reveler sinks their teeth into Tavros’s shoulder.  The second reveler’s hands find their way to his throat, and in an instant he’s choking.  His vision goes red, and he struggles desperately against them.  He can feel someone’s blood pouring down his back as he thrashes around the room, knocking into easels, shelves, lamps.  He throws them both off, and runs for the door.

 

When he’s safely away, he stops for breath, and looks down at his left hand.  Empty.

 

 

***

 

 

After an hour, by Karkat’s reckoning, Dave still breathes.  Karkat doesn’t move him, on the off chance that he does more damage, and sets up vigil nearby.  Karkat doesn’t want to examine the corpse.  He doesn’t want to think that people can become that physically and mentally messed up.  He reloads the gun, and keeps his ears open for any more intruders.  The only things that accompany him are the sounds of steam pipes, and Dave’s unsteady breathing.

 

What’s he going to do if Dave doesn’t make it?

 

He stalks around the room, looking at the discarded machinery.  None of it’s in any state for use, and a lot of it has rusted.  Karkat doesn’t poke around too much in the corners, in case he breaks something with a disease on it.  The blueprints that Dave was carrying are stained with blood.  Karkat doesn’t want to look at them.

 

After a while, he returns to the design studio.  The drawers he searched lie strewn about, their contents spilled.  Not really knowing what he’s looking for, Karkat begins to search again for any clues Dave’s brother might’ve left.  No drawers contain anything interesting or useful.  None of the blueprints have any obvious codes written into them.  Frustrated, Karkat begins to scour the desks themselves for hidden compartments.  He turns up nothing.

 

He goes back to Dave’s body and crouches down next to it.  Stupid, fucking, goddamn human!  Why didn’t he listen when Karkat said there was trouble?  What made him think that just because he had a fancy sword he wasn’t going to get fucking injured?  Karkat made a mental list of reasons why Dave was a waste of good genetics and should’ve been culled as a small child to spare the world of his idiocy.

 

Even so, Karkat did not want Dave to die.  But he just didn’t know what else he could do.

 

“Goddamn it, when you wake up we’re having serious words,” Karkat snarls under his breath.  “You’re a reckless, arrogant piece of shit, and now look at what’s happened!  Are you fucking happy?  Are you pleased with how this turned out?”

 

Karkat stands up and kicks a nearby crescent wrench, which clatters away into the darkness.

 

“Fuck.  Wake up already, Strider!”

 

Dave stirs.  Karkat is on his knees in a second by Dave’s head.  With a groan, Dave spasms, curling in on himself before rolling over to vomit up blood.  Karkat watches as the heaves continue, lessening over time until nothing comes out but a dribble of bile.  He pulls Dave out of the pool of sick before he drowns in it.

 

“Karkat…” Dave says quietly.

 

“I’m here.”

 

“My knight in shining armor.”

 

Dave pretends to swoon, a rather meager gesture in his current state.  Karkat drops him on the concrete.

 

“You know what?  Fuck it.  I just spent the last several hours worrying that you were going to die and leave me all alone, just like every other person in my life that so much as gives me the time of day, and then you have the audacity to not only wake up, but to go on and remind me of all the reasons you’re the shittiest excuse of a friend nobody would ever ask for.”

 

Dave laughs, and tries to sit up.

 

“Woah, getting dizzy,” he says.

 

“That’s because you lost a ton of blood, or did you forget the part about getting yourself gutted by a…I don’t even know what that fucker is!”

 

Dave flops back down, turning his head to look at the corpse against the wall.

 

“Looks like a splicer,” Dave says.  “Shit, he got himself messed up.”

 

“No thanks to the bullet in his thinkpan.”

 

“Where are my shades?”

 

Karkat looks around, but can’t find them.  He shrugs at Dave.

 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says.  He grabs Dave’s face and drags it into the light.

 

“Woah, let’s calm down here, Karkat.  The knight thing earlier was a joke.”

 

“Shut up, asshole,” Karkat says.  Dave’s eyes are different—the irises more vibrantly red, the pupils less milky.  “Holy shit, Dave you’re not blind!”

 

“No shit, Sherlock, I can see you from here.”

 

“No, I mean,” Karkat says.  “Just, fuck it if you can’t tell things are looking clearer then fuck you, because your eyes don’t look like complete shit anymore.”

 

“Well damn, I guess I should stop wearing shades if I get these kinds of compliments pouring in.”

 

Karkat throws up his hands and stalks off.  He doesn’t go far, though, in case Dave has another heaving episode.

 

“You know what?  You are about the most infuriating member of your species I think I’ve ever encountered,” Karkat says.  Dave tries to sit up again, more slowly this time.  “If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re paying me good money to take care of you, I would’ve left you rotting.”

 

“Nothing stopped you,” Dave says, rolling his neck and blinking around.  “You could’ve easily just taken all the money I had on me and left.”

 

“Well.  Yeah.  I guess, but I’m not a fucking corpse looter.”

 

“Wouldn’t have stopped you in the Drop,” Dave points out.  “Face it, Karkat: you’re full of shit.”

 

Karkat snarls, but has no response to this.

 

“Did you get a chance to look around while I was out?” Dave asks.

 

“Yeah, and there’s nothing.  All the machines are too rusted to be of any use, and there weren’t any secret hidden compartments in the studio to speak of.”

 

“Secret hidden compartments?”

 

“Yeah, you know like concealed doors, locked vaults, that sort of shit.”

 

Dave thinks about this for a moment.

 

“You know, maybe there is.  How much of the studio did you search?”

 

Karkat shrugs.

 

“I was kind of in shock, so I have no fucking idea.”

 

“Well, help me to my feet and let’s give the place another once-over.”

 

Karkat pulls Dave to his feet, slinging Dave’s arm over his shoulder to support him as they walk gingerly back to the design studio.  Karkat feels Dave wince with every step.

 

“How are you doing?”

 

“This is fucking excruciating,” Dave says.  “Just hurry up and let’s get there.”

 

Back in the studio, Dave directs Karkat to his brother’s workstation—“Karkat, you weren’t even searching in the right part of the room.” “Oh fuck off!”—where there are a few drawers yet still in place.  Karkat takes them out, and searches around the inside of the desk.

 

“Hey, I found something,” he says.  There’s a button on the underside of the desktop with a wire leading somewhere out of sight.  Karkat pushes it, and with a soft whoosh of air a small cupboard under the desk opens up.

 

“I knew he’d have a stash somewhere,” Dave says.  “What’s inside?”

 

“A bunch of boxes and shit.”

 

“Well, come on, let’s have them out where we can see.”

 

Karkat, with more than a few complaints, shifts the boxes out of the cupboard to where Dave can pry them open.  Most of the boxes contain stolen machine parts, or more puppets.  One of them is entirely full of alcohol.

 

“Well, at least the guy had good taste,” Dave says, holding one bottle up to read the label.  “Shit, this stuff must’ve cost a lot.”

 

“Dave look at this one,” Karkat says, handing him the last, smallest box.  Inside are a pair of hypos, two letters, and a map.  Dave opens the one addressed to him.

 

“Who’s Dirk?” Karkat asks.

 

“That’s my brother.  I remember writing that a while ago, but I guess it’s old news.”

 

_Dave,_

_As you can see, the plan’s changed.  I don’t know how soon we can expect a visit from the Midnight Crew, so I’m leaving you this letter in case I’m not around to tell you in person when you get back.  If I’m not at the apartment, then they’ve probably arrested me.  Don’t go looking for me at Zahhak’s place, because they’ll have gotten him, too._

_This whole thing goes deeper, if you’ll pardon the pun, than anything we suspected.  It’s not just Egbert Industries, the entire city is dancing to the tune of a hidden puppet master.  We’ve just seen a few of the strings, but the web goes far and wide.  The map I’ve left you is everything the two of us dug up, so you should know it well already._

_Come and find me, if you can.  There’s only one place they would’ve taken me—the same place they’ve taken everyone else that’s been a threat to their little puppet show._

_Persephone.  It lies below._

_-Dirk_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's that poketroll? As if you don't know the answer.


	7. Chasing Shadows

Jane and Rose walk through the recently drained corridors of Athena’s Glory, flashlights in hand.  Everything is still sopping wet, and many dividing walls were simply swept aside by the tide of ocean from above.  Light fixtures dangle from their places by thin wires, occasionally sparking.

 

“I wish we could’ve been called in after they’d fixed the elevator,” Rose says as they find the emergency stairwell.

 

“I hope you know what we’re getting into, here,” Jane replies.  “I’ve never dealt with the Peixes before.”

 

“Imagine if sharks could talk,” Rose says.  “And also possessed an impeccable sense of fashion, and a bottomless well of goodwill toward all those unfortunate enough to be born in the lower-middle class.  Really, they’re not like sharks at all, I suppose, but their teeth certainly lend to the comparison.”

 

Jane stops and fixes Rose with a confused and worried look.

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind,” Jane says.

 

They climb thirty flights of stairs before stopping to take a break.  Up here, the damage is greater, but the floors are generally drier.  Jane looks up to the penthouse, which is another thirty floors up.  She sighs.

 

“If I’d known we would be doing this much walking today, I would’ve gone to bed earlier last night.”

 

“Tired already, Inspector?” Rose smirks, but Jane can tell she’s becoming fatigued as well.  “I would’ve thought someone with as much experience walking the beat as you would have a bit more stamina.”

 

“Flat, even wharfs are one thing, Rose,” Jane says.  “Stairs are a monster all their own.”

 

They sit on the landing five minutes longer, and then continue their ascent. 

 

The penthouse of Athena’s Glory looks as though a bomb has been detonated in it.  This has not stopped Feferi from meeting her guests in the same drawing room she met Meenah the night before.  The chair is still there, albeit completely ruined by water damage.  Feferi herself sits in her swimwear, as it was the only clothing she owned that withstood the deluge.  Jane and Rose take a moment to catch their breath before approaching her across the rubble.

 

“Good morning, Inspector,” Feferi says.

 

“Ms. Peixes, I take it?” Jane says.  The troll nods.  “Good morning.  I didn’t know they had restored phone service this high up.”

 

Feferi laughs, and sure enough, Jane notes, her teeth are razor sharp like a shark.

 

“No, not at all, Inspector!  I had the cleanup crews radio my asfishtant to arrange this meeting when they installed the window plug.  It’s a rather searious matter.”

 

Feferi smoothes the wrinkles of her swimsuit and shifts posture.  Rose has her audio recorder out while Jane does the talking.

 

“It must be, if you had us come here on such short notice,” Jane says.  It’s early, but she makes a valiant attempt at civility.

 

“It’s Meenah,” Feferi snaps, her anger directed more toward her heir than Jane.

 

“Oh, you mean your floozy of an heir apparent?” Rose pipes up, examining a bit of wainscoting that survived the flood.

 

“Rose!” Jane reprimands.

 

“Jane, if you knew the amount of money my publisher makes _not_ printing stories on the exploits of the young Peixes, you might go into news writing, and that would be such a waste of your talents.  More lucrative, of course.”

 

“If you’re quite fishnished,” Feferi says.  “I believe that Meenah caused the flood, probably after I had words with her about her unruly behavior.  She broke her window and swam off somewhere, and now I have no idea where she is, or what mischief she’s getting about.”

 

“So you want us to find her, is that it?” Jane asks.

 

“Yes.  And bring her back to me when you do, alive.  I intend to see that my heir learns her place before the month is out.”

 

“Why the deadline?” Jane asks.

 

“Meenah’s debutante ball is on New Year’s,” Rose says lazily, picking through a bureau of fine silver.  “Ms. Peixes can’t afford to cancel it; too many high-profile and influential people will be in attendance.  Either the ball goes off without incident, or the so-called heir of the Beforan Foundation and the enormous Peixes fortune becomes known as a disgrace to her clan, and that reflects poorly on her caretaker.  Have I got that about right?”

 

Rose smiles at Feferi, who clammed up during her monologue.  She allows herself a stiff nod.

 

“Yes.  Very astute, Ms…?”

 

“Lalonde.  Rose Lalonde, Rapture Tribune,” Rose says, extending a business card covered in neat, lavender cursive.

 

“Are you by any chance related to…?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Rose says with a shrug.  “Perhaps distantly?”

 

“I sea.  Well, Inspector, it’s just as Ms. Lalonde has said.  I need Meenah back in my care before New Year’s.  I’m afraid shoal get herself into deeper trouble than even I can save her from otherwise.”

 

“May we have a look around?” Jane asks, gesturing too the ruined penthouse.  “It might help our investigation if we could search for clues.”

 

“Of course,” Feferi nods.

 

Jane and Rose ambulate: Jane pokes around Meenah’s suite while Rose searches the rest of the penthouse.  In the bathroom, Jane takes note of the plug, and the spread of the damage.  Fine, damp dust has gathered on the ground, which cuts when she touches it with her fingers.  Rose is accompanied by Feferi as she makes her round.

 

“Tell me, did they ever install a pool up here?”

 

“Ugh, no!  Not that it matters, we have twenty-four hour access to the pool downstairs, but it’s practically public.”

 

“Such hardships you must endure, sharing your undersea pool.”

 

“I will have you know that my work through the Foundation more than absolves any gillt I should feel for indulging in luxsubmarines, Ms. Lalonde.”

 

“Bit of a stretch, that one.”

 

“Can’t win them all.”

 

“So, and you’ll forgive me if this sounds terribly uninformed, believe me if I’d had my way I wouldn’t be a fashion columnist with an investigative journalism hobby, but I’m not precisely clear on what your Foundation actually _does_.”

 

“You know the Rapture Fine Arts Conservatory?  The Beforan Housing Commission?  The Gene Therapies Medical Division?”

 

“In other words, the city loses if the Foundation doesn’t have a chairtroll.  But why Meenah?  She’s completely uncontainable.”

 

“Troutdition, mostly.  If I’m forced to make a decision, I can always select another successor.  But it means a great deal if it’s a blood relative who takes the reigns, rather than some stooge.”

 

“Either the perpetuation of eons of blood-based castes, or continuing the trend of civilizing the nobility.  It sounds terribly revolutionary.  Do let me know when you plan to make that announcement.”

 

“Well, you know it’s always a shock when an outsider takes over a human family business?  Think that, but with meaningful politicoral consequences in the troll community.”

 

The two are standing by Feferi’s bed, an enormous heart-shaped water mattress that collapsed under the pressure.  The phone is still plugged into the wall by its cord, buried under the bed sheets and draperies.  Rose digs it up.

 

“You have an answerphone?”

 

“Of course.  It, uh, also serves as an effective recording device for other receivers.”

 

Rose looks at her blankly.

 

“This is a phone tap,” she states.  Feferi puts a hand on her hip, daring Rose to pass judgment.  Rose sighs.  “I suppose in any other circumstance, the reasonable follow-up would be ‘why is there a phone tap on your genetic predecessor’s phone line’?  But this is Meenah we’re talking about, so the reasonable follow-up is, ‘do you have more than one tape, and would it be possible to borrow them’?  For the investigation.”

 

Feferi narrows her eyes at Rose.

 

“Most of them will probably be too water-logged, but you may ‘borrow’ the one in there.  But if I see one word in the papers referencing the content of that tape, I will gut you like a fish.”

 

“Not a single word on this tape will make it to print, scout’s honor.”

 

Rose opens up the cassette deck on the answerphone and removes the tape.  She looks over to Jane, who is still snooping in the bathroom.

 

“Jane!  Have you found anything?”

 

“I’m not sure how much more we’ll be able to get out of this place,” Jane says, taking a few notes.  “How about you?”

 

“I’ve got a telephone recording of dubious quality and merit.”

 

“Not much to go on.”

 

Rose raises an eyebrow at Jane and then glances to the wreckage on either side of her.  A half an hour later, the two return to the emergency stairwell and begin their long trek back down.  As they walk, Rose takes out her audio recorder and puts Feferi’s tape inside, pressing play.

 

“So, the Peixes girl ran off to join an outfit called The Felt,” Jane says.

 

“I’ve never heard of them,” Rose says, rewinding the tape.

 

“Well, we have at least one substantial lead—that girl, Latula.”

 

“She may not be the best source, given how evidently close she is with Meenah,” Rose listens to the recorded message again.  “Who is the White Knight?”

 

“That’s a question that seems to be on everyone’s mind these days,” Jane says.  “Haven’t you seen the posters?”

 

Rose shakes her head.

 

Latula lives in a crowded flat in Olympus Heights; not the height of luxury, but certainly well-to-do.  Jane knocks on the door while Rose examines a nearby painting, an ‘unconscious rendition’ by a famous artist.

 

“Can you believe people pay money for these?”

 

Before Jane can answer, the door opens and a bedraggled Latula stands there in a bathrobe.

 

“Are you Latula Pyrope?” Jane asks.

 

“Is there something I can do for you?”

 

“Inspector Jane Crocker, I’m here to ask you a few questions about your friend, Meenah Peixes.”

 

Latula’s eyes widen visibly.

  
“Hey, I didn’t know nothing about the accident at the hotel!  I only spoke with her on the phone, she went off the deep end without any warning!”

 

“We know,” Jane says.  “We were just there.  May we come in?”

 

Latula looks over at Rose, who gives every impression of snooping around, like she imagines bodyguards do when their boss is in the middle of a delicate negotiation.  She doesn’t know how successfully she pulls this off, but Latula goes a little ashen when she flashes her a look.

 

“Uh, sure.  Actually, do you mind if we do this somewhere else?  I don’t want to catch hell from the fam,” Latula says, voice lowered.  Jane looks past her and sees a number of other trolls occupying the apartment.

 

“Latula, who’s at the door?”

 

“Just a salesman!” Latula says.

 

“Tell them to fuck off, we’re getting lunch prepared.”

 

“Actually, I was going to go out for lunch,” Latula is looking more nervous the longer Jane stands there.  “I’m meeting…friends at the bistro.”

 

“Fine, but don’t stay out to all hours again tonight.”

 

“Can you please hang on a minute,” Latula says to Jane.  The door closes with a snap, and Jane is left standing on the doorstep.  She folds her arms and frowns.

 

“Do you think she’ll try and give us the slip?” she asks Rose.

 

“If she’s smart, she’ll answer our questions but act the fool,” Rose responds.  “We know where she lives, which means that we’re free to tail her at any point, and then pose our questions again in a less congenial setting.”

 

Ten minutes pass.  Jane continues to stare holes into the door, while Rose wanders around, checking the area for escape routes.  The building is designed around a central court, much like higher-rent Mercury Suites.  Unlike Mercury, however, the court opens into a public plaza.  Rose watches the people in the court, commuters coming and going.  From the plaza, she hears the sound of music, an Italian composition from the Renaissance that she can’t immediately recall the name of.  Below, a vendor dressed as a clown sells plasmids and cotton candy.

 

The door to the apartment opens, and Latula steps out in a nondescript coat.

 

“Where do you wanna do this?” she asks, uncertainly.

 

“Somewhere nearby that’s public where you won’t make a scene,” Jane says.  “How about the bistro in the square?”

 

Latula nods, and leads the others down to the square. 

 

“Can I interest any of you fine-lookin’ motherfuckers in some quality tonics?”

 

“No, thank you,” Rose says.  “I prefer my tonics to be stiff and containing only alcohol.”

 

Jane gets them into a private booth, and sits across from Latula.  Rose slides in next to the troll, effectively trapping her.  Jane notes Latula’s uncomfortable fidgeting while giving her drink order.

 

“So, Latula,” Jane begins.  “How long have you and Meenah been acquainted?”

 

“Shoot, I don’t know,” Latula says.  “We’ve been extremely close gal pals for at least ten years.  We used to sneak out all the time to hit the bars, and slum it with the trolls down in the Quarter.”

 

“ _Used_ to?” Rose asks.

 

“Well, yeah, we ‘used to’ sneak out, just like we ‘used to’ be ‘best fronds’ before she flooded a hotel and went missing, which, wow, kind of an eye-opening look into Meenah’s crazy.”

 

“What was the last thing the two of you did, before Meenah’s disappearance?” Jane asks.

 

“Meenah’s been getting all kinds of stir crazy with her mom breathing down her neck about going into the family foundation, and so lately we’ve been…”

 

Latula trails off, trying to find the most diplomatic way of answering.

 

“…kind of…”

 

Jane and Rose lean in a little closer.

 

“…infiltrating.”

 

“Infiltrating,” Jane repeats.

 

“Well, you know, we’d do like we did before: sneak out, and hit the bars, only instead of just going to the Quarter we’d—okay, look, if I tell you this, can you swear to me that it will in no way make it back to my folks or anyone that might ever want to hire me for a job?”

 

“Well, that depends on the field you intend to pursue--,” Rose starts.

 

“We can’t make that guarantee,” Jane interrupts.  “But, we’ll do our best.”

 

Latula still looks visibly uncomfortable.

 

“Well, last time we went out, alright, we went to the White Queen.”

 

“Wait just a moment,” Jane says.  “You’re telling me that, just for kicks, you and Meenah have been infiltrating criminal organizations?”

 

Latula nods, looking embarrassed.

 

“So, who are the Felt?  Meenah mentioned--.”

 

Behind them, outside the restaurant, there’s an explosion.  Jane stops mid-sentence to turn around in her seat as several tables are picked up by the shock wave and thrown toward them.  Restaurant patrons scream, running for the exits when Rose yanks her down, probably saving her life as a second explosion rocks the bistro.  In a lull, Jane peaks out of the shelter of the booth, watching as two people wearing masks shoot guns and a retreating figure carrying a box.  The figure turns, hands burning, and snaps their fingers, causing one of the gunners to burst into flames.  As their friend runs to find help, over the agonizing yells of the immolating gunner, the figure disappears from sight.

 

Rose jumps into action.

 

“Jane, this is breaking.  You finish up with Latula somewhere else.”

 

“Right,” Jane says, turning to the troll, who vaults over the back of the booth and makes a break for the side door.  Jane grinds her teeth and runs after her.

 

 

***

 

 

_ATTACK IN OLYMPUS_

_By Rose Lalonde  
_

_Earlier today, during an exceptionally busy lunch rush, there was an attack outside the Central Square Bistro in Olympus Heights that quickly escalated into a protracted firefight.  The assailants, armed with guns, allegedly got into a disagreement with an unknown person believed to be addicted to the substance ADAM.  After opening fire, one of the assailants was set ablaze by the commercially available plasmid_ Incinerate! _The other assailant is unknown and still at large.  It’s at this point uncertain what exactly the disagreement was over, although speculation by eyewitnesses indicates that the unknown person, who fled the scene, had appropriated a large store of contraband ADAM._

Rose finds Jane that night at Fighting Nitram’s talking to the bartender.  She slides onto the stool next to her as roars erupt from the back room.

 

“Sounds like an enormous triumph,” Rose remarks, ordering a scotch.

  
“Yeah, doll…man, you should’ve seen the first round, just this little baby meowbeast takin’ on a scaley fighterlizard…”

 

“Thank you, Rufioh, I don’t require the play-by-play.”

 

“That’s cool, doll, I know it’s not for everyone…”

 

“So, Jane, how fared things with Latula?” Rose asks, turning to Jane.  Jane sighs in frustration and buries her head in her arms.  Her mumbled reply is lost.  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

 

“She escaped during the firefight, and then I lost track of her somewhere in the fish market.”

 

“So, there goes our only lead.”

 

“No,” Jane says.  “We know they went to the White Queen, and we know that Meenah joined the Felt, whoever they are.”

 

“It’s amazing to me,” Rose says.  “I’ve been around this city a fair bit in all my years here, and I’ve never even heard of them.”

 

“Heard of what, doll?” Rufioh asks, coming over while polishing a glass.

 

“Have you ever heard of a gang called The Felt?” Jane asks.  Rufioh thinks for a moment, placing the glass down and putting a hand to his chin.  After a minute he snaps his fingers and grins.

  
“Yeah, I know that outfit…But doll, why you gotta be mixing up with that crowd?”

  
“We’re looking for someone who may be involved with them,” Jane says.  “So, what do you know?”

 

“Let’s see…always dress in green felt suits…most of ‘em are leprechauns, except for their leader, who’s this mighty fine lookin’ black chess piece…way I hear it, she’s got it out something fierce for John Egbert…or maybe it was Diamonds Droog?  Shoot, I don’t remember…anyway, real big on clocks and pool…way I hear it said, the Felt doesn’t move unless the timing and the odds are just right, and that’s when they make their killing…sounds pretty brutal, if you ask me…”

 

Jane nods.

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

“I’m not surprised a pair of classy dolls such as yourselves haven’t heard of them…even the chess men we get in here barely talk about them…”

 

“Well, that still leaves the question open: what do we do now?” Rose says to Jane.  “Do we follow up on this Felt lead, or continue searching the steam pipes for that hidden smuggling den?”

 

Jane considers the question, finishing off her gin.

  
“We’re being paid to look for Meenah Peixes by the wealthiest troll in the city,” Jane says.  “The longer we take to find her, the further away she gets.  Let’s go to the White Queen and see what we can scare up, and _then_ we’ll head back to the steam tunnels.”

 

“Very well,” Rose says.  “Maybe while we’re there, I can write a review of it.”

 

“If you two are planning to go to the White Queen…” Rufioh interjects.  “You should know…there’s a dress code…”

 

Rose and Jane meet up outside the White Queen an hour later, Rose in a black floor-length gown and a feathered headband, and Jane in a white tuxedo, beaglepuss in place.

 

“Jane, you look dashing,” Rose says.  “And had I known you were going to wear the moustache, I would’ve brought a better domino.”

 

“This was the only thing in white I could get on short notice, and it’s a loan from Rufioh,” Jane says.  “I think it’s a little big, don’t you?”

 

Rose dusts off the back of the jacket, and straightens Jane’s lapels.

 

“Pretend it’s a gorilla suit, if you must.  Now, shall we?”

 

They grease a few palms at the door, and make it inside.  The Board is arranged so that guests can dance in the center by the band, which plays the Jitterbug Waltz.  Rose tugs a little on Jane’s sleeve.

 

“Look over there: the Felt Lounge.”

 

“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Jane says.

 

The sign by the lounge reads, ‘2 Nights Only…Snowman!’  Jane looks around at the wait staff: to a man, they are all chess pieces of one color or another, dressed in suits of the opposing color.

 

“Rose, give me your gloves,” Jane instructs.

 

“But Jane, now?  I would feel indecent without them.”

 

“I’m going to do a bit of digging behind the scenes, and I need your gloves,” Jane whispers, irritation in her tone.  Rose acquiesces with a shrug.  Jane steps into the nearest restroom to slip them on, checking her hair in the mirror and flattening it as much as possible—with fortune, she wouldn't be taken for a human from the back. 

 

Back on the Board, she slips back into the Employees Only area.  The floor is tiled black and white, and Jane has no trouble with any chessmen she meets.  Everyone is too busy to pay attention to her, with a few exceptions that she easily evades.  Past kitchens and stock rooms, she finds a few wine cellars, and then an area tiled all in black.  There are few chessmen here, and Jane very easily finds the manager’s office.  Inside sits a leprechaun in blue top hat, apparently asleep. 

 

The walls are lined with filing cabinets, which Jane goes through as quietly as she can without disturbing the leprechaun.  Skipping over things like employee records, she finds a number of audio recorders tucked away in folders.  Removing the tapes from three of these is the most she can manage, however, before the manager begins to stir in his slumber.  Quietly she slips out of his office.

 

Rose, meanwhile, casts an appraising look over the front of the Felt Lounge.  The bouncer doesn’t look amused.

 

“It’s member’s only,” he says gruffly.

 

“Is it really?  Why do you think that is?”

 

“Because I said so.  You gonna move along, or what?”

 

“So you’re the one who controls membership in this…establishment?”

 

The bouncer’s brow furrows.

 

“Are you playing mind games on me?”

 

“Not at all!  It’s just that, it seems such a dingy sort of lounge.  Hardly worth paying someone to stand in front of and guard.”

 

“Sure, why not.  Just go somewhere else, and stop wasting my time.”

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Rose says.  “I’m standing out here in the Board, which is publicly accessible to all the bar’s patrons.  Now, if I were to be inside the Lounge, you’d be well within your rights to eject me from the premises, otherwise, I’m afraid you have no choice but to put up with my idle speculations.”

 

The bouncer grits his teeth, and, muttering something about needing a break, flounces off into the Felt Lounge.  Rose waits twelve seconds before following him.  She goes straight to the bar, ordering an expensive cocktail, and watches Snowman singing onstage.  It’s some minutes before she notices that a little leprechaun in a green suit and purple bowler has sat down next to her.  She raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve got a date with the bouncer out front,” Rose says.  “But I’m afraid he might have forgotten.”

 

“You definitely picked the wrong night to come in here.”

 

“But if I’d waited much longer, I wouldn’t have had the chance to hear Snowman sing,” Rose says, taking a sip of her cocktail.  “That’s a rare pleasure, I’m meant to understand.”

 

“Hey!  Bitch by the bar!  Water you doin’ here?” a gruff voice shouts.  Rose looks up to see Meenah, dressed in a green felt suit, standing nearby with a trident in hand.  She looks past at the pool table—some of the scratches on the surface would indicate she had been using it to play.

 

“Ms. Peixes, such an honor to meet you in a much less personable capacity.”

 

Meenah raises an eyebrow.

 

“Pretty shore I don’t minnow you,” she scoffs.

  
“But last week in the Quarter, I believe you were getting to ‘minnow’ Horuss Zahhak very well.”

 

Meenah’s mouth falls open a little, and Rose doesn’t notice how the leprechaun to her right is trying desperately to get her attention.  She smiles at Meenah.

 

“Don’t worry, I promise I didn’t try to publish the story.  Too much.”

 

Meenah looks like she’s about to explode, such a range of emotions crosses her face.  Rose is disappointed to see her school her expression, tapping the trident into the floor.

 

“So you’re a reporter, huh.  How’d you get past the bouncer?”

 

“Speaking of bouncer,” Rose says, looking over to the door.  “Where is he?  I was fully expecting to have him throw me out by now.”

 

“Whale!  Since you’re stayin’,” Meenah says with a shark-like grin.  “How about you and I play some pool?”

 

Meenah levels the trident at Rose.

 

“It seems I’m not being given the option to refuse.”

 

“Yer in here uninvited, of course I’m not giving you a clam-sucking choice,” Meenah snarls.  She leads Rose over to one of the unoccupied tables, tossing her a stick while setting up the break.  Rose catches the stick, thumbing the end and spinning it experimentally.

 

“So what do you have in mind to do with me, Ms. Peixes?”

 

“Just a little wager,” Meenah says.  “If you win, I let you walk outta here, but if you lose I stick you with mah fork and call it a day.”

 

“Stick deep, Ms. Peixes.  I might not be cooked all the way through.”

 

“The fuck does that mean?”

 

Rose smiles, and makes her first shot, sinking the yellow ball.

 

Jane is having some trouble with being lost.  After exiting the manager’s office, she failed to retrace her steps, finding herself in a backstage area.  She hears a woman singing not too far away, and narrowly avoids being detected by a surly leprechaun in a white and yellow hat pushing a rack of coats to a storage room.  In a green room, she takes stock, and decides that she should try again to retrace her steps.  While she tries to piece the route back together, one of the doors into the green room opens, and Snowman walks in.  She stops when she sees Jane, narrowing her eyes.  
  
“Oh, uh,” Jane stutters.

 

From behind a sofa, Snowman retrieves a fencing foil.  Jane’s eyes widen.

 

“I was just leaving, as a matter of fact!  Good night!”

 

Jane absconds quickly as Snowman lunges.  Jane runs backstage, Snowman in pursuit. 

 

Rose sinks another ball, pulling well ahead of Meenah, when there’s a clashing noise onstage.  Rose turns around and sees Snowman dueling with Jane, who has retrieved a broom from somewhere, leaving herself open.  Meenah thrusts her trident, skewering Rose, who lets out a soft, ‘oh!’ before falling backwards.  Jane fends off another thrust, and jumps off the stage when she sees Meenah yank her trident out of Rose’s stricken body.

 

“Rose!”

 

Snowman thrusts again, stabbing Jane through her shoulder.  The sword breaks, leaving the tip embedded inside, so Snowman clocks Jane across the back of the head with the handguard.  She looks up at Meenah, and draws a line across her throat before indicating the fallen sleuth and reporter.  Meenah nods.

 

“Clover, help me take these bodies out.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jane has barely regained consciousness when she is dumped unceremoniously onto the floor of an airlock.  Her coat is stained brown where the foil’s tip is stuck in her, a hard line of distress whenever she shifts her weight.  She looks over at Rose’s body, still and serene, and ghostly pale.  There was no way she could have survived the loss of that much blood.

 

There’s a klaxon blare, and the airlock begins to fill with water.  Jane struggles to stand up, but in a second she’s holding her breath, and blinking her eyes against the sting of the salt.  Another klaxon, and the exterior door opens.  Jane struggles over to the pressure control lever, and tries to push it back to close the door and evacuate the airlock, but she can’t budge it.  Someone on the inside must have locked the controls. 

 

Feeling dizzy, Jane notes that a person in a diving suit has entered the airlock, and picked up Rose.  She feels an arm around her waist, and is potato sacked over the stranger’s shoulders.  Her struggles are token—she is probably going to die drowning one way or the other.

 

The diver steps out onto the seafloor, the towers of Rapture rising up around them like fingers to claw at the blackness.  They pass under a nearby Atlantic Express track pylon, which is starting to grow coral.  Schools of fish swarm about the lights of the city’s numerous billboards and electric signs.  There is an ambient glow about the city, pale blue like an aurora.  Jane thinks, there are worse things she could see before the end.

 

Her lungs feel like they are about to pop, and she is losing consciousness when the diver approaches another airlock.  She swallows seawater, fighting back the ocean pressure when she sees it.  There’s hope!  The diver places her on the floor as the exterior door closes, and Jane blacks out.

 

When she comes to, the first thing she does if vomit.  Seawater and bile splatter across the floor, and Jane spends a minute coughing up until she feels wrung like a sponge.  She’s soaked to the bone and shivering, and still feeling lightheaded as she takes in a few deep breaths.

 

“Easy there, Inspector Crocker.  You don’t want to hyperventil8.”

 

Jane looks over at the diver, who has not taken off their helmet.  She tries to sit up, but the dizziness and the wound conspire to keep her prone.  The diver lifts her up and props her against the wall of the airlock.

 

“Thank you,” Jane says.  “You saved my life.”

 

“Psh!  Of course I did.  You owe me a favor.”

 

“Terezi Pyrope?”

 

“Wrong!”

 

The diver takes off her helmet, flicking a voluminous tangle of hair out of her face.  One of her eyes has eight pupils.

 

“Vriska Serket, pirate commandant and successful business tycoon, at your service!”

 

Jane stares at Vriska flabbergasted.  Vriska, for her part, seems in no hurry to do anything.

 

“But…” Jane tries.

 

“Let me make it reeeeeeeeally simple: you owe Terezi, Terezi owes me, so you owe me.  Besides, it’s not as though our mutual acquaintance is in any position to collect on her debts.  But that’s all just water past the prow!  Now that we’ve got you here, we can get down to business.”

 

“What about Rose?”

 

Vriska looks over at Rose.

 

“I guess…bury her?  She’s not much more than fish bait at this point, sorry to break it to you.”

 

“Oh.  I see,” Jane says.  “I’m sorry, I might need a minute.”

 

“Take eight,” Vriska says.  “But that’s all you get!  After that, we won’t have time for you to get weepy eyed on us.”

 

Jane says nothing to that, but crawls gingerly over to where Rose lies.  Water drains out of her mouth, mixing with a little blood still oozing from three holes in her chest.  Jane isn’t sad—she hasn’t known Rose long enough to call them good friends, although given the complicated nature of Rose Lalonde that may have been for other reasons—but she does feel remorse, and a dim, throbbing anger.  She’s sure sadness will come later, after all this is over, but Jane Crocker was never one to let tears get in the way of work.

 

Meenah Peixes must pay.

 

The Felt is going down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rufioh the Exposition Fairy returns. Also, my spring break is coming to a close, so frequent updates are going to slow down even further.


	8. Begin The Beguine

Dave is walking on his own again in no time, thanks to the ADAM, when he and Karkat sit down again to plan their next move.  Ignoring Dirk’s warning, they have gone to the flat of Equius Zahhak, and found it ransacked and empty.  Dave declares the flat their new base of operations—“What are we, a bunch of wrigglers with a club house?” “We should post a sign on the door, ‘No Girls Allowed’.”—and sleeps off the last of his injuries in the master bed, leaving Karkat to take the couch.  Karkat doesn’t sleep, but instead looks over the map that Dirk left them: it’s a generic Rapture Metro map, with the main line of the Atlantic Express poorly superimposed, and most stops either circled or crossed out.  Karkat can’t really make any sense of it, but then again Karkat hasn’t been able to make a lot of sense of anything lately.  His circumstances, his company, and the reasons why he’s stuck with either remain a mystery.

 

Dave emerges later to find Karkat dozing in front of the television, which is running plasmid commercials.

 

“Set fire to your enemies!  Warning: fire spreads!”

 

He turns the television off, startling Karkat into wakefulness.

 

“Jegus, Dave!”

 

“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

 

“Kind of hard to go back to sleep now that you’re annoying ass in here in my face.”

 

“My ass is nowhere near your face, man, see?  It’s planted firmly on top of this television set.”

 

“Which I was watching.”

 

“You were asleep.”

 

Karkat grits his teeth to keep from emitting another string of expletives.  He gestures to the map.

 

“So hey, I was thinking we should talk about what we’re planning to do now.”

 

Dave purses his lips, folding his arms.  He is wearing one of Equius’s button-ups, which is far too big for him. 

 

“I’m not gonna lie, Karkat,” he says.  “This next part could get pretty dangerous.  The things my brother and I found out before this whole thing went down would be enough to make a brave man throw up his hands and say, ‘nope’.”

 

“Yeah?  Try me.”

 

“So you know how ADAM is this miracle drug that makes psychotic mutants and brings unlawfully good-looking people back from the brink of death?”

 

“I seem to recall the psychotic mutants part.  When I see any illegally handsome people out there, I’ll be sure to let you and the authorities know.”

 

“Ouch, Karkat.  You wound me.”

 

“Just get on with the fucking story.”

 

“Bottom line: they grow in, manufacture from, and test that shit on people.  It makes a lot of sense when you think about it, but the thing is why would you think about it?  It just raises all kinds of morally ambiguous and uncomfortable ideas.”

 

Karkat looks visibly disgusted.

 

“So that shit I put in you that saved your life, that was…?”

 

“ADAM is people, yes.”

 

Dave lets out a breath and puts his hands in his pockets.  Karkat is still trying to wrap his head around a number of ideas, unsuccessfully.

 

“What--?  Why were you even looking into this?  I thought you were a fucking musician!”

 

“Equius has a cousin, name of Horuss.”

 

“Trolls don’t have cousins, fuckwipe.”

 

“Shut up and let the grown man speak,” Dave says.  “Horuss is kind of a big deal up at Egbert Industries, so Equius picked up a thing or two, as one does.  Anyway, he does a job for this outfit called Draconic Solutions—sounds pretty morbid, right?  Like you’d definitely feel confident entrusting small children to these guys—to fabricate a bunch of high-security prison doors.  That’s his term, not the term on the order.  He tells Equius, who tells Dirk because they were doin’ the dirty pretty regularly back then.”

 

Karkat makes a face.

 

“Aw, look at the little virgin pouting his never-been-kissed lips.”

 

“Fuck you, Strider, I am not even deigning to touch that one.”

 

“Not like you’d know how.”

 

Karkat growls warningly at Dave, who simply smirks.

 

“So Dirk brings me on the case, and we look into it.  Who needs prison doors in a city where there are no prisons?  Cherub Futuristics, Draconic Solutions, and now, Egbert Industries.”

 

He counts off the names on his fingers.

 

“Smugglers my ass, there were people vanishing off the streets long before that whole Serket fuss hit the news.  They were going straight to the people who manufacture the city’s ADAM, plasmids, and gene tonics.  Dirk and I used to keep a list of people we suspected were being tossed into the ADAM factories, but it became futile after a while.”

 

“So that’s why you came down to the Drop, because you wrote songs protesting the plasmid industry,” Karkat says.

 

“Got it in one.  After a narrow escape in the streets, Dirk advised me to disappear, so I went the only place people go where no one’s going to look for them.  I was hoping after a few months it’d blow over, but evidence suggests otherwise.”

 

Karkat is silent, eyes closed.  He takes a peak at the map.

 

“What are these circles and x’s for?”

 

“Circles mark areas that might have a prison, x’s mark areas that assuredly don’t contain prisons.  Unmarked areas haven’t been searched yet.”

 

“Yeah, okay, I got that,” Karkat says a little heatedly.

 

“Now, as of yet no one knows I’m back, and no one knows you were involved in anything.  You can leave now, if you want—take some money, start a new life.  Settle down with a nice troll wife and have a dozen adorable troll babies.”

 

“That’s gross, and also not how it works.  Did your pathetic human public education fail you in some way, or are you just a brain-dead lunatic?”

 

“Most assuredly the former.”

 

“You realize what you’re doing, right?  You’re pitting yourself, one recently badly injured squishy human, against two, since Cherub Futuristics is fucking gone, two of the most powerful companies in the entire city.  That’s what you’re doing.”

 

“Well, not as such, no.  I’m just trying to find my brother, and maybe his troll boyfriend.”

 

“You’re going to die,” Karkat says.  “You’re going to get killed, and your body thrown out an airlock somewhere to become fish food.”

 

“It’s likely.”

 

“And you’re still going through with it?”

 

“I could just pretend I know nothing about it, forget I ever had a brother, and move on with my life…” Dave starts.

 

“No, you shut the fuck up, and leave the self-pitying monologues to someone who actually deserves one, viz. me.  Now, I want you to hold on to your seat, because this might blow you away, but as at most one of us actually gives a shit that you might die it falls on me to bring the sensibility to the table.  As much as I appreciate that you’re trying to be all noble by taking up the cause for justice and family or whatever the fuck it is you humans care about (“Wow, Karkat, way to be a racist” “You’re still shutting the fuck up!”), the fact still remains that if you go alone you are going to fucking die, without serving justice or making one iota of progress toward helping anyone.  You need a fucking plan, and more importantly you need my fucking help, and don’t you try to tell me that you don’t.  You would be dead if I had taken my money and fucked off like a reasonable asshole.  So we are going to talk this through, like what steps we are actually going to take to find this Persephone place, because we are reasonable adults with highly-tuned senses of honor _and_ self-preservation.”

 

Dave applauds slowly.

 

“Did you rehearse that one while I was out?”

 

“No, fuckass, my rants are entirely improvisational products of my unbelievable creative genius.  Are you just going to take the piss out of everything, or are we going to knuckle down and get serious?”

 

“Wait,” Dave says, holding up a finger.  Karkat clenches his teeth, hands balling into fists, knowing he’s not going to like anything that Dave says next.

 

“What?” he growls.

 

“Troll virgin."

 

“Oh, fuck you, Strider!”

 

Dave laughs, actually laughs, clutching his stomach through the spasms of pain leftover from the splicer attack.  He has to force himself to stop, but even then his snickers leak out each time he tries to speak.  Karkat feels offended, like he’s been the butt of one joke too many.  Dave puts up a hand to stop him from flouncing off in a huff.

 

“Karkat, wait.  I’m sorry,” Dave finally manages.  “You’re right, I just couldn’t resist, and the look on your face--!”

 

“Are you done?  I can come back later.  No, please, I’ve got nothing else to do but sit here and wait for you to gather your shit together.”

 

“Yeah, I’m done.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry!  Jesus, let’s just sit down and hash this out.”

  
Karkat has come over and started slapping Dave about the head.  Dave fends him off, and the two take seats around the map.  Karkat stares blankly at it for a moment while Dave fishes a pen out of his pocket.

 

“Okay,” he says, writing ‘Persephone’ at the top of the map.  “That’s our goal.”

 

He writes, ‘it lies below’ beneath ‘Persephone’ and underlines it.

 

“So we know that it’s a secret,” Dave says.  Karkat nods.  “Which means it’s nowhere near downtown.  If it was, there’d be chessmen talking about it—those guys can’t keep secrets for shit.  We also know that it’s under the control of either Draconic Solutions or Egbert Industries, or maybe even both.  I believe the guy who owns Draconic works for John somehow.”

 

“He’s his right-hand man,” Karkat says.  Dave raises an eyebrow.  “What, I can’t know anything without you telling me?”

 

“I’m just a bit surprised you know that, for someone who’s spent years in the Drop.”

 

“There are two kinds of people in the Drop, Dave” Karkat says.  “People who go to forget, and people who can’t forget.  I had my own run-ins with the guy before my exile.”

 

“You’re gonna have to tell me that story someday,” Dave says.

 

“But the bottom line is, we’re really looking for a high security prison being run by one guy: John Egbert.  Which means it’s likely we’ll find it in Egbert Industries.”

 

“Not necessarily.  The plasmid business was under control of Cherub Futuristics before Egbert Industries had even heard of ADAM, which means that people were being disappeared into Cherub Futuristics.”

 

“Where is it?”

 

“Here,” Dave says, pointing to a spot at the end of the Atlantic Express main line.  “We just take the express there, and snoop around.  I don’t know what they’re doing with the place now that the big guy’s dead, but we’re bound to find something.”

 

“Okay,” Karkat says.  “But before we do that, we need some stronger firepower than a rusty ass sword and a pistol.”

 

“Oh man, you do not disrespect my blade.  That baby’s edge is keener than a razor.  I even polish it every day.”

 

“Whatever, the point is now that you can see you won’t have an excuse to pass off the guns to me.”

 

“Alright,” Dave says.  Karkat is taken aback.  “I’ll get a gun.”

 

“What, just like that?  No snarky comebacks?  No rancid heaping bullshit?”

 

“Nope.  We’re being serious right now, Karkat.  No bullshit.”

 

“Okay.  Well.  Good.”

 

“So we take a trip to the gun store, buy a train ticket, and poke around the big spooky corporation for clues.  It’s not much of a plan.”

 

“It’s still better than nothing,” Karkat says.  “I think we can be forgiven for planning the bare minimum, as opposed to running in there blind and unarmed with targets painted on our chest for security to practice their aim on.”

 

“We should also pick up some changes of clothing, in case we need to escape and they try and follow us.  Never underestimate the power of a good disguise.”

 

Karkat nods, and the two lapse into silence.  Dave gets up to search through Equius’ liquor cabinet, which still contains a few bottles of vodka.  He pours himself a shot, and offers one to Karkat.

 

“Thanks,” Karkat says, knocking back the drink.  “Augh, this burns.”

 

“Yeah, it’s not the best,” Dave says.  “Still, better than that shit they serve at the Limbo Room.”

 

“Raw sewage carries fewer health risks than that garbage.”

 

“Hey, Karkat,” Dave says, taking another shot.  “Thanks for sticking with me.  I mean, you’re right, I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you, and I want you to know I’m grateful.”

 

“It was the least I could do,” Karkat says.  “I was killing myself slowly down there, and if you hadn’t come along and given me a way out, I’d probably be dead by now, too.”

 

“That’s not true.  You’re a feisty son of a bitch; you would’ve figured something out.”

 

“No,” Karkat shakes his head.  “I don’t think you know what being down there as long as I have does to you.  I had to watch every single day as more people came down, broke, or on the run like I was.  I was just barely scraping by.  Do you know how hard it is to get food in the Drop?  I went weeks without eating sometimes, and there was no chance of things getting better because more people came down, and no one was leaving.  And then people would just…die, in the streets.  Just fall over and not get up.  Or hang themselves, or whatever else the fuck.  I had neighbors wouldn’t last a week before just giving up.  This was everywhere I looked; it was everything I knew.  And it only got worse when ADAM got big, because then the freaks were mutants, gibbering, insane.  It was like the entire ocean was pressing down on me from all sides, trying to rub me out.”

 

Karkat takes another shot.

 

“At first I resisted, because fuck despair, I was getting out,” Karkat says, tone fierce.  “But…years went by, and the station was closed, and the pipes kept being closed up, and sometimes I wouldn’t have the strength to move, and then I didn’t have any reason to try.”

 

“Hey,” Dave says, putting a hand on Karkat’s shoulder.  “That’s all behind you now.”

 

Karkat nods, grabbing the bottle from Dave’s hand and sucking it down.

 

“Yeah, fuck that place,” Karkat says, slamming the empty bottle on the table.  “I got out, and now this whole damn city’s my fucking oyster.  Woah.”

 

Karkat wobbles where he’s stood, the alcohol hitting his thinkpan like a speeding train.

 

“Hey there, you’d better have a seat,” Dave says, pulling Karkat back down to the sofa.  “Shit, Karkat, you just killed off a bottle of vodka.  You are gonna regret that hangover.  Sit tight while I get you some water.”

 

Dave goes into the kitchen while Karkat watches the flat spin around him.  He feels equal parts anxious to get started, and completely laid out by the drink.  The ceiling lights (wait, wasn’t there only one?) dance across his vision.  Dave returns with a cup of water, tilting Karkat’s head up while making him take a few sips.  Karkat flails a little at the treatment.

 

“Easy there, nubby-horns,” Dave says.  “Believe me, you’ll thank me for this later.”

 

“Dave, Daaaave,” Karkat says.  “Stop it, Dave, you’re being, *hic*, nice all of a sudden.”

 

“Well sure, I’ve got to take good care of my buddy who is about to experience a lot of distress thanks to his stupidly killing off an entire bottle of vodka.”

 

“Stop it, let me regret my fucking choices in peace.”

 

“We’ve got an important operation in the works, Karkat, and you need to be your best.”

 

“You’re wonderful, Dave.”

 

“Karkat, you’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying.  Have some more water.”

 

“No, I mean it,” Karkat says, pushing the cup away.  It’s important that he get this out.  “Shut up, it’s not being weird.  But just, people don’t tend to stay around me long.  And you keep trying to get me to leave, but not because you don’t want me, but out of some fucked up sense of trying to keep me safe.  Why do you…why do you do that?”

 

Dave is silent while Karkat drinks more water. 

 

“I’m saying this because I expect you probably won’t remember when you wake up,” Dave says.  “But I really don’t like putting my friends in danger.  It’s fine if it’s just me, I can take it.  But I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to someone I cared about on account of me.”

 

“Fucking softie.”

 

“Yep, that’s me, all gooey on the inside like a piece of chocolate.”

 

 

***

 

With Karkat safely tucked in on the couch, Dave leaves the flat to take care of a few things.  The first stop is the El Ammino Bandito vending machine in the lobby of the apartment building.  Dave checks that he is alone—it’s late at night, so nobody should be out in the streets, but one never knows in this town—and then slips around back of the machine to crack open the control box.  Switching around a few wires, he hears a rewarding click, and a spill of coins out the coin return.  He scoops them up, and feeds them back into the machine until he gets enough credit to buy a revolver, with ammunition.

 

“That should keep Karkat happy,” Dave says.  “Too bad they don’t have bigger guns, but I guess that’d get ridiculous with the dispenser.  Shit, why do they even have these things in public?  It’s like they’re asking for people to just shoot each other in the streets, Wild West style.”

 

Dave looks down at the shirt he’s wearing.  He needs some new duds—he’s had the pants for a long time, and this shirt is just not fitting.  He makes a long trek to the fish market, keeping clear of the city’s surveillance system, laughably inadequate though it is.  A few shops are still open this late, or at least open up their doors for Dave when he knocks.  At a Chinese antiques shop, he buys clothes, a black jacket with a Mandarin collar, black pants, and a white shirt that fits somewhat better than Equius’s. 

 

“Hey, you know where I could go to get a few explosives?”

 

“Try the pawnshop, next alley over,” the proprietor says as Dave pays for his purchases.

 

At the pawnshop, Dave doesn’t find any explosives, but does find a Tommy gun at a decent price.  He shoves it into a tote bag, and finds a different El Ammino Bandito to stock up on ammo.  Checking his cash and finding he’s running low, he concludes his shopping spree and makes his way back to the flat.

 

In a lonely square, far from his destination, he is stopped by a clown with a vending cart.

 

“Excuse me, my strapping ass motherfucker,” the clown says.  “Would you like to try some of my wicked elixirs?”

 

“Sorry, I’m not interested,” Dave says, trying to get past.  The clown claps a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t be like that, my brother,” he says.  “These are some top quality gewgaws, shit like you wouldn’t believe.  Go on and try some.”

 

“How much?”

 

The clown shakes his head.

 

“First one’s free, on the house.  Try this motherfucker out.”

 

The clown opens the cart and pulls out a plasmid with a picture of a lightning bolt on the label.  Dave takes it, dubiously.

 

“Come on, now, don’t be motherfuckin’ shy,” the clown encourages.  “Just stick that piece right there in your arm.  Go on.”

 

Dave considers the plasmid.  Any advantage could be useful.  On the other hand, Dave considers the things Karkat said about the ADAM addicts in the Drop.  It’s bad enough he already had a massive dose of the stuff raw. 

 

“I don’t know about this,” Dave tells the clown.  “This shit’s addictive as hell.”

 

The clown shrugs.

 

“Suit your motherfuckin’ self, but I ain’t takin’ that back.  It’s all yours.  Whether you splice or not, it’ll still be a miracle.”

 

Dave considers the plasmid again.  He wants to try it, but he has his reservations.  The clown totters off with his cart, leaving Dave alone to think it over.

 

“Fuck it,” he says, sticking the needle into his arm and depressing the plunger.

 

The sensation is akin to being shocked multiple times in rapid succession all up and down his arm.  Lightning arcs from his hand in bright blue bolts, striking nearby metal objects.  Dave falls to his knees, but he gets an exhilarating rush in his gut as the power courses through his body.

 

“Shit!” he exclaims as the shocks die down in magnitude and frequency, finally syncing up with his heartbeat.  He looks at his hand.  Each time his heart beats, his veins light up like neon lights faintly through his skin.  He goes over to a lamppost, running his hand over it.  Sparks jump from his fingers, dancing over the metal.  He draws his hand back, and the sparks die out.

 

“Huh.”

 

He points his fingers at a lamppost across the square, and a bolt of lightning fires at it, exploding the light bulb.  Dave’s hand stings something awful, but he gets such a rush from the experience he is tempted to shoot all the lampposts in the area.

 

“No, I can’t,” Dave says.  “There’s a limit to this.  Keep it together, Strider.  Aw, fuck, what am I gonna tell Karkat?”

 

 

***

 

 

Jane refuses the ADAM treatments that Vriska’s physician tries to use on her.

 

“But miss,” he protests.  “These therapies are clinically proven to facilitate rapid healing.  Surely you don’t want to be bedridden for the next two weeks.”

 

“I will be nothing of the sort, doctor,” Jane says.  “But no ADAM.”

 

“What’s the matter, Crocker?” Vriska says from the doorway.  “Scaaaaaaaared of the side-effects?”

 

“Yes, as a matter of fact.  I don’t fancy being hooked on splicing for the rest of my life.”

 

“Suit yourself,” Vriska shrugs.  “Beat it, doc, the lady doesn’t want your crackpot gene therapies.”

 

Jane is housed in a private room in some kind of safe house, from what she could glean of the area while she was being carried in.  She shifts her weight and looks Vriska over.  The self-avowed pirate is tall and rather striking, and definitely a fan of the color cerulean if her overalls and lipstick are anything to go by.  Vriska folds her arms and smirks at Jane.

 

“Like what you see, Inspector?”

 

“I was trying to judge how well the photo in John Egbert’s office captured you,” Jane says.  “It was rather blurry.”

 

“John’s a fool,” Vriska says, fondly.  “But he’s not why you’re here.”

 

“Terezi.”  
  
“It looks like our lawyer friend’s gone and disappeared into the bowels of Egbert Industries, which is a damn shame.  Buuuuuuuut, it can’t be helped.  Unless they’ve taken her to Persephone, there’s nothing I can do.”

 

“What is Persephone?” Jane asks.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Vriska sneers.  “Don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong, Crocker.  That information is strictly ooooooooff limits!”

 

Vriska draws a line in the air with a pointed nail to illustrate the point.  Jane raises an eyebrow.

 

“So what do you need me here for, then?”

 

“Oh, the usual: corporate espionage, crushing the competition.  That’s what Rapture’s all about!”

 

“You want me to spy on Ampora Whaling.”

 

“That small fry?  Hardly!  I could buy and sell that chump.”

 

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.  Is it something to do with your smuggling ring?”

 

“You coooooooould say that,” Vriska says.

 

“I’m not helping you smuggle anything.”

 

“Jegus, take a pill,” Vriska scoffs.  “I’m not asking you to smuggle shit.  You wouldn’t even be any good at it!  I’ve already got an entire network of people who would jump if I told them to.”

 

“So we get back to the original question: why am I here?”

 

Vriska laughs.

 

“Come on, Crocker, I thought you were smart.  Think!  City’s top crime boss is hiring you to help vet the competition, who are you being asked to target?”

 

“The Felt?  The Midnight Crew?  The White Knight?”

 

“All in good time,” Vriska says.  “But yes!  You’ve worked it out.  I need your help breaking some criminal heads!  Really, it’s not any different from what you were doing before, only instead of trying to tail me, you’re going after the real dangerous elements.”

 

“What do you mean?” Jane asks.

 

“I have a vested interest in the status quo,” Vriska says.  “Can’t rip people off if there’s chaos in the streets, can I?  Let me ask you something.”

 

Vriska is suddenly very near to Jane, that infuriating grin plastered to her face.  Jane backs up as much as she can, feeling as though the troll means to tear her throat out.

 

“Don’t you think it’s curious that the Felt, a small gang of leprechauns who spend all their time stealing clocks and playing pool, are based out of the same dive bar that holds meetings for this guy, the White Knight, who wants to see Egbert Industries overthrown in some kind of fucked up worker’s rebellion?”

 

“I’ll admit, it’s strange,” Jane says.  “But why haven’t you done anything about it?  Don’t you have thugs?  Have them ransack the place.”

 

“Ugh, you wouldn’t belieeeeeeeeve how difficult it is to get good muscle in this town.  Besides, any time I’ve tried to make a move against the Felt, the fucking Midnight Crew gets in the way.  I think they’re in cahoots, but I can’t prove anything.  Soooooooo, this is where you come in.”

 

“You want me to find the connection between the Felt and the Midnight Crew?”

 

“You’ve got it!” Vriska says, pleased.  “We find that connection, sever it, and then watch them all flop around like fish on the dock!  Just say what you need, and we’ll see what we can do.”

 

“Okay,” Jane says, thinking.  “I’m going to need Rose’s audio recorder.  It was in her coat when she came with me to the White Queen.”

 

“What’s it look like?”

 

 

***

 

 

John arrives at the Memorial Museum in Point Prometheus flanked by the Dignitary and Slick.  Roxy and Horuss meet him in the atrium, Roxy looking none-too-pleased.

 

“So, good you could make it, Mr. Egbert,” Horuss says.  “I think, I speak for everyone when I say what an honor it is to have you, take time from your no-doubt busy schedule.  Please, pardon my stammering.”

 

Roxy rolls her eyes.  “Speak for yourself, Horuss.”

 

“Right you are, Doctor, my apologies,” Horuss says to Roxy, bowing a little to her.  She is not placated.

 

“So, you say you’ve found the solution to our vanishing Little Sister problem?” John asks.

 

“Yes, if you’ll follow me inside,” Horuss says.  The group heads inside, with Horuss regaling them all with an explanation that seems to involve ‘mental conditioning’ ‘armored protector’ and ‘pair bonding’.  The entire thing goes over John’s head.

 

“Wait, let me see if I understand this.  You’ve brainwashed a guy in a metal suit to…follow around the Little Sisters?”

 

“Strictly speaking, he will act as her guardian, protecting her from harm while she walks the streets of Rapture collecting ADAM.  The process still requires some fine-tuning, but I think you will be satisfied with the results…”

 

Roxy scoffs.

 

“Is there, something wrong with my methodology that you would like to address, Doctor?” Horuss asks.

 

“Probably the part where we’re expected to further brainwash a bunch of six-year-olds not to run away screaming when they see the monster you’ve crafted.”

 

“Doctor, have you had anything to drink today?”

 

“No,” Roxy snaps.  “And I have a splitting headache, so can we wrap this up quickly?”

 

“I apologize, I had not realized you were in discomfort.  Here, you may have some of mine,” Horuss offers her a drink from a flask, which Roxy drains in one go.

 

“Thanks,” Roxy says.

 

“So, what am I in for?” John asks.  The Dignitary and Slick shadow him closely, but say nothing.

 

“It would behoove you not to have the surprise spoiled.”

 

They arrive at the main gallery, a large chamber at the base of Prometheus Tower, which contains an exhibit on the natural history of the area around Rapture.  An enormous Ichthyosaur skeleton hangs from the ceiling.  On the ground floor, a person in an enormous, bulky diving suit stands, hand gripping a drill.  Behind the visor shines a yellow light.

 

“Is that him?” John asks, pointing.

 

“Yes, that is the subject that has best adjusted to the rigors of the program,” Horuss says.  “We will be demonstrating his combat prowess.  Now, watch closely as we release the prisoners into the gallery.”

 

Horuss presses a button on a remote control, and the doors to the ground floor open up, letting a number of people, largely chessmen and trolls, out.  Each one is dressed in identical striped jumpsuits, and each carries a different weapon.  John shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Notice how he is docile in the presence of others,” Horuss says.  “This is an important feature, considering we will be free to allow the Sisters to wander Rapture otherwise unsupervised.  It would be bad for the program if they were to attack any passersby.”

 

“Yeah,” John says.

 

“Now I will administer the trigger to elicit an aggressive response from the subject.”

 

Horuss presses another button, and from the speakers a piercing scream cuts through the room.  The lights behind the visor change to red, and the protector charges the nearest prisoner, running him through with the drill.  The other prisoners spring into action, falling on the protector like a swarm, but the protector simply swings his drill, breaking open the skulls of those nearest to him.  Blood and bits of bone fleck the walls.  John watches in horror and fascination as the protector messily tears through the prisoners like they were made of tissue paper.

 

“Boss, you feelin’ well?” Slick asks.

 

“Thank you, Slick, I’m fine.”

 

“We artificially enhanced the subject’s strength with ADAM,” Horuss is saying.  “As you can see, he maneuvers that industrial grade drill with ease, something a normal person would be unable to do without years of training.  Speed and agility, as well…”

 

“Excuse me, Horuss, I need to step out for a moment,” John says.  “Where’s the bathroom in this place?”

 

“Of course.”

 

John walks quickly to the nearest restroom, suppressing his gag reflex until he is alone in the nearest stall.  He throws up his lunch, and sits there for a moment shivering.  He chastises himself for not having a stronger stomach, and then returns to the gallery.

  
“Something I ate,” he says apologetically.  “Anyway, Horuss I’m convinced.  These protectors will be an enormous help keeping the Little Sisters safe.”

 

“I’m so happy you approve!” Horuss says.  “You can expect the finished models to be ready within the week.  How many will you require?”

 

“We can discuss the specifics in Doctor Lalonde’s office, I think.”

 

Roxy nods stiffly, her eyes still on the protector, who has resumed his normal, docile state.

 

After the meeting, and long after everyone else has gone home, Roxy sits at her desk, nursing a snifter of brandy.  In front of her is the official order for one dozen protector units.  _Units_.  Roxy is to provide the ADAM solutions for the mental conditioning, for both the protectors and the girls.  She spent most of the day getting things together, but she feels empty.  Drained.  There’s a void inside her that claws at her being with each step she takes.  In the past, copious amounts of alcohol filled this void, but tonight all it seems to do is make her hate herself more and more.

 

“Fuck,” she swears.

 

She puts the brandy away in her desk, and picks up her bag.  Walking around the office, she takes off a few books from the shelves, and stuffs them along with some folders from her desk into the bag.  She puts on her coat and locks her office.

 

Meulin’s room is at the far end of the orphanage.  Roxy disables the security for a few minutes, walking quickly to the young troll’s door and knocking softly.

 

“Meulin, sweetie,” she calls.  “It’s Miss Roxy.”

 

Roxy opens the door to find Meulin rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

 

“Miss Roxy?” she asks blearily.  “’sbedtime…”

 

“I know, sweetie,” Roxy says.  “But you can’t go to bed now.  Get up and get dressed.”

 

“Where’re we going?” Meulin asks, crawling out of bed, her eyes glowing eerily in the dim light cast by the nightlight. 

 

“Somewhere safe,” Roxy says.  Meulin frowns.  “Somewhere people won’t do bad things to you anymore.”

 

“Okay,” Meulin says.  She has Roxy turn around while she changes into her smock, taking a dog’s age to put her shoes on.  Roxy rummages through her drawers and takes a few more changes of clothes, putting them in her bag.  When Meulin is done, she stands before Roxy looking sleepy.

 

“Now get your coat on,” Roxy says.  “We’ve got to hurry, or the bad people will catch us.”

 

“Who’re the bad people?” Meulin asks, struggling into her coat over a yawn.

 

“The bad people want to take you to the lab,” Roxy says, kneeling down so she can look Meulin in the eye.  “They want to put you under a spell, and I can’t let them do that.  So we’re going away for a while.”

 

Meulin nods, and Roxy leads her by the hand out of the orphanage, carefully locking all the doors behind her.  She re-enables the security system, and locks the front door.  She takes Meulin’s hand again, and leads her to the metro station downstairs.

 

 

***

 

 

Cronus is at the Footlight again, singing a famous tune he recalls from watching the revues in New York.

 

_Wvhat moments divine_

_Wvhat rapture serene_

_‘til clouds came along_

_To disperse the joys wve had tasted_

_And nowv wvhen I hear people curse the chance that wvas wvasted_

_I knowv but too wvell wvhat they mean_

_So don’t let them begin_

_The beguine_

_Let the lovwe that wvas once a fire_

_Remain an ember_

_Let it sleep like the dead desire that I only remember_

_Wvhen they begin_

_The beguine_

He looks up at the crowd, and notices something that almost makes him stumble mid-verse: Roxy is in the crowd, watching him.  She nods backstage, and pushes her way past the theatergoers.  Cronus catches a brief glimpse of a little girl being towed along behind her when she disappears through the door backstage.  Cronus wraps up the song, bows, and follows after Roxy.

 

She stands in his dressing room, talking quietly to a little troll girl.  They both turn around when he opens the door, and his breath hitches.

 

“Is that…?”

 

“Cronus, this is Meulin.  Meulin, say hello.”

 

“Hi,” she says shyly.

 

“Don’t worry, Cronus,” Roxy says.  “She doesn’t remember anything before the orphanage.”

 

“Wvhat…howv…wvhy is she here?” Cronus asks.

 

“John’s implementing some new, half-baked scheme to keep the girls safe.  Apparently there have been incidents with them disappearing.  They’re instituting some kind of protector program, where ‘volunteers’ agree to be suited up and brainwashed to kill anything that threatens the girls.  I just.  I couldn’t let that happen to Meulin.”

 

“Wvell, howv about that conscience?” Cronus crosses his arms, looking unamused.  “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

 

“I brought her here because I need your help.  I'm done with those vultures at Egbert Industries.  But when it comes out that she’s missing, and I’m the one that took her, there’s going to be a manhunt.  You’ve got friends in discreet places, and besides, I figured you’d do it for Meulin.”

 

Cronus purses his lips, and looks at Meulin, who has been listening to the conversation attentively.

 

“I’ll see wvhat I can do.  But you’re probably gonna havwe to stay here for a wvhile, if you’vwe got nowvhere else to go.”

 

“Yeah.  My apartment won’t be safe.”

 

“I’vwe got a showv to finish, but afterwvards I’ll talk to some people.”

 

“Understood.  And Cronus,” Roxy says as he’s about to leave.  “Thank you.  I’m sorry you had to play such a fucked up part of this.”

 

“Miss Roxy,” Meulin hisses.  “Miss Roxy you shouldn’t swear.”

 

“I know, Meulin,” Roxy says, smiling at her.  “But you know Miss Roxy has trouble remembering sometimes.”

 

Cronus is giving them a look like his blood pusher is about to melt.  He quickly absconds without saying more.

 

 

***

 

 

Meenah stands on the roof of Apollo Square, trident in hand.  Ahead of her, a long avenue winds its way through apartment complexes.  At the end of the avenue, the most recent project by the Beforan Housing Commission: a low-income apartment complex, full to bursting with chessmen.  Meenah swims over to it, settling on the roof where her vantage over the central court is unrivaled.  In the center of the courtyard below is a tall statue of Feferi, hands opened beatifically.  Meenah grins, swimming over to the middle of the glass ceiling.  She raises her trident over her head with both hands and brings it down with all her force.  A tiny crack forms, and Meenah strikes it again, widening it.  Water begins to drip down through as Meenah swims away, and moments later the ceiling collapses, dropping tons of water into the courtyard.  She disappears from the scene before the rescue subs can arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update for a while, probably, and of course it includes Big Daddies. I wonder if you can see what's coming? 
> 
> Lyrics from Begin the Beguine by Cole Porter


	9. Twentieth Century Blues

_Who Is The White Knight?_

_-Porrim Maryam_

_After yesterday’s rio+t in Apo+llo+ Square was brutally suppressed by the usual heavy-handedness fro+m Egbert Industries, the questio+n o+n everyo+ne’s mind is this: who+ is the White Knight?  Yet ano+ther patriarchal radical decrying, with go+o+d reaso+n, the current abysmal status quo+ in the name o+f the wo+rkers o+f Rapture.  Who+ever he is, he seems to+ have go+ne o+ut o+f his way to+ paint himself a mo+dern day Ro+bin Ho+o+d, particularly with his curio+usly well-circulated flyer campaign.  Perso+nally, I’ve always been mo+re o+f a fan of Jo+an o+f Arc.  Isn’t it abo+ut time we had a mo+re feminine hand guide the revo+lutio+n?  Otherwise, this co+lumn wo+n’t be surprised when the pro+letariat dictato+rship turns aro+und and bites the very o+ppressed so+uls it was installed to+ pro+tect._

 

***

 

 

When Cronus next sees Nepeta, she is drunk, lying in a gutter face down as though she tripped and simply refused to stand up.  He is taking a stroll down to the docks, and almost misses her except for her muffled sniffles.  Pausing to put out his cigarette, Cronus pokes at her with his foot.

  
“Hey, you alright?”

 

He hears a laugh.

 

“Am I alRIGHT?  Do I look alRIGHT to you, you calic—killico—bastard?”

 

Cronus only then recognizes her, when she stares up at him with olive stains pooling in her eyes, face mottled by the pavement where she lay.

 

“Whatwas I e’en CRYIN’ to say?  Oh right, you’re a bastard.”

 

“Oh my god, wvhat happened?  Howv long havwe you been out here?”

 

He leans down to help Nepeta get to her feet, but she shoves him off forcefully before stumbling up.  She supports herself on the glass of the tunnel, leaving a greasy handprint as she sways in place.  Cronus feels ill.

 

“Lemme tell you somethin’, sheatorll,” she says.  “I’ve never laiked you.  You’re accents weird, and you smell like fishsticks and cigrettes.  Normally I like the smell of fishsticks, but not on you!”

 

Cronus takes a step toward her, his hands up where she can blearily follow them with her gaze.

 

“Wvell, I’m sorry you feel that wvay, but I think maybe it’s time you wvent home and slept this off.  I can help you—,” he says.

 

“Don’you tuch me, I know my way amrownd,” Nepeta belches, and then staggers purposefully off in one direction.  “Wai, thisisn’ right.  Which way’s to the fish mrrkat?”

 

“It’s that wvay,” Cronus points in the direction he was going.  “I’m on my wvay there nowv.”

 

“No, you don’get to be mah bodygrowld,” Nepeta protests.  “I doneven live there!  I was testin’ you.”

 

Cronus looks unimpressed when Nepeta suddenly bursts into a fit of giggles.  He purses his lips a little slyly, knowing he’s going to hate himself for what he’s about to do.

 

“Howv’s your search for Meulin going?”

 

Nepeta’s smile slides off her face very slowly.  Cronus winces, but muscles on.

 

“Because…I think I knowv wvhere she is.”

 

Cronus doesn’t look at her for a full minute while this information sinks in.  Nepeta’s drunk demeanor seems to fall away as she slowly walks toward him.  Smelling of cheap bourbon, she grabs him by the collar of his shirt and yanks him down so that they are at eye level.  Her expression is hard to read, but Cronus thinks that she wants him to be lying.

 

“Oh yeah?” she asks.  Cronus nods.

 

Nepeta lets him go and starts laughing, a low chuckle that grows in volume and pitch.  Cronus half expects her to keep laughing until the entire street echoes with it, but then it dies, and she’s looking up at the sea with a vacant expression on her face.

 

“Even if I believed you,” she says quietly.  “Gog, I must be drunker than I thought.  You’re just a sicko preying on my grief to get a quick tumble.  Bastard.”

 

She spits at his feet and turns to walk away again.  Cronus grabs her shoulder and spins her back, her unkempt hair whipping around.  She fixes him with a gaze like an angry lion.

 

“I’m not,” Cronus says quietly.  “Just…let me take you to her, if you don’t believwe me.”

 

Nepeta sighs, and then smiles, eyes half-lidded in the neon of a nearby billboard.

 

“Fine, I’ll play along.”

 

She wraps her arms around Cronus’ neck and pulls him in close.  Cronus’ eyes widen, and he tries to pull back.

 

“Wvhat…wvhat are you doin’?”

 

“This is what you want, right?  You want me to be your playful little kitty cat, rub you up and down all night long.  You feel all bad for the poor sad kitty, you just can’t help but want to comfurt her.”

 

Nepeta bats her eyelashes, but the hardness of her grip and the fire in her stare paralyzes Cronus.  She drags him from the street, shoving him into the nearest public toilet.

 

“Wvait, s-stop!”

 

“Hush, kitty’s here.”

 

Afterwards, Cronus sits there in a bathroom stall, alone, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollow.  His mind was blank, except for a single refrain:

 

 _I’m scum.  Wvhy did I let that happen?_  

 

Outside the stall, he hears the sink running.  Nepeta washes her face, toweling off with the sleeve of her overalls.  She stalks back into the stall and stares down at him contemptuously.

 

“Jegus, look at you.  You’d think it was your first time, or something.”

 

Cronus says nothing. 

 

“Well?”

 

Cronus meets her gaze.  Her arms are crossed.  He feels sick.

 

“Don’t you have something to ‘show’ me?”

 

Cronus gets to his feet, not looking at her, and cleans himself up in the sink.  They walk in silence through the streets to a neighborhood near the fish market.  There are a few late evening shoppers out, but they are haggard and hurry on without glancing at Cronus and Nepeta.  As they walk through a glass tunnel, lit from the side by an enormous neon sign reading ‘Finley’s Diner’, Nepeta’s ears prick.  Somewhere ahead, a little girl is singing.

 

She pushes past Cronus, who flinches at her touch.  Past the tunnel is an avenue lined with cafés, all closed for the night.  The only lights that pervade the area are from the shop signs, which fail to adequately illuminate the space.  There are a few bodies on the ground.

 

Nepeta has stopped, breath caught in her throat.  Ahead of her, busy by one of the corpses, a little troll girl in an olive smock busies herself with an enormous syringe, singing softly.

 

_Mary had a small woolbeast_

_Small woolbeast_

_Small woolbeast_

_Mary had a small woolbeast_

_Whose fleece was white as snow_

“Meulin,” Nepeta whispers.  Meulin stops her singing to take a drink of the contents of the syringe, burping a little before skipping off.  Nepeta follows almost in a trance, but stops when she sees a blonde adult human waiting for Meulin by a street corner.

 

“Miss Roxy!” Meulin says excitedly.  “Miss Roxy I found an angel!”

 

“Atta girl,” Roxy says.  The light is insufficient to tell her expression, but she kneels down to speak to Meulin.  “Aw, crud, you went and made a mess of yourself.”

 

Nepeta watches as Roxy takes out a handkerchief and wipes Meulin’s face.  Meulin protests a little, but soon Roxy straightens and takes the troll girl’s hand.  They turn to go, and Nepeta turns to Cronus standing a few feet behind her.

 

“What the hell is going on?  Why…why is my daughter with that…that _hussy_?”

 

Cronus doesn’t answer.  Nepeta shakes his shoulders, panic rising with the volume of her entreaties.

 

“Tell me what’s going on!  What is she doing to that body?  Why is she here?  Why won’t you answer me!?”

 

Nepeta shoves him back and runs after the retreating pair.

 

“Meulin!” she cries.  Roxy turns, startled, and sees her.  “Meulin, come back!”

 

Meulin turns as well when she hears her name, the sight of her glowing eyes causing Nepeta to stop up short.  She looks at her daughter in horror, breathing hard.  Meulin stares back at her impassively, and then checks with Roxy.

 

“Miss Roxy?” she whispers.  “Miss Roxy there’s a crazy lady.”

 

“She’s not crazy, Meulin,” Roxy says reprovingly.  Nepeta takes a step back, starting when Roxy says the girl’s name.  “’scuse me, but would you happen to be this little girl’s mother?”

 

Nepeta is crying again, olive tears silently falling as she takes another step backward.

 

“No,” she says.  “No.  My daughter is dead.  That’s not my Meulin.”

 

Roxy makes to move to comfort Nepeta, but Meulin chimes in, “But my name’s Meulin!  Miss Roxy, how does she know my name?”

 

“Because, I think this is your mom,” Roxy says.

 

“But trolls don’t have moms, Miss Roxy,” Meulin says as if explaining two and two were four to an especially obtuse child.

 

Nepeta takes another step back, still saying to herself, “Not my Meulin.  That’s not my Meulin.”

 

“It’s okay, lady,” Meulin says to Nepeta.  Nepeta looks at her.  Meulin is smiling.  “Mister Cronus always says you got to have faith.  Maybe your Meulin’s looking for you, too!”

 

“Why…?” Nepeta whispers.

 

“They don’t remember anything before the procedure,” Roxy says.  Nepeta’s eyes snap to her.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Nepeta strides forward and slaps Roxy across the face.

 

“What did you do to my daughter!?” she screams.  “What did you do to her!?  Why is she like this!?  Why can’t she remember who I am!?”

 

Roxy straightens slightly, and meets Nepeta’s gaze neutrally.  Nepeta is about to inflict serious harm to Roxy when Meulin’s shriek brings her up short.

 

“Stop it!  You’re hurting Miss Roxy!”

 

Nepeta has her hands around Roxy’s neck.  She drops them, and falls to her knees, crawling toward Meulin, who backs away from her in terror.

 

“Meulin…please…” Nepeta begs.  “Please, why can’t you remember me?”

 

“Come on, Meulin,” Roxy says.  “Let’s go.”

 

“Please…Meulin…” Nepeta clutches her sides as Roxy leads Meulin away.

 

 

***

 

 

Festive paper lanterns are strung up in the tea garden for a private party being thrown for staff of Arcadia.  Jade, who was an hour earlier poring over growth charts in her lab, sits with a few colleagues and Sir Jake English, whom she invited.  A phonograph by the refreshments table plays the best of Django Reinhardt, and several people dance in the middle of the central courtyard.

 

“So I told the blighter, ‘that’s no U-boat, that’s a pod of whales!’” Jake says to much appreciative laughter.

 

“You must’ve been so relieved!” Jade says, giggling.

 

“Sir English, you must tell us more stories from the war!” one of Jade’s colleagues says.  Jake flashes her a charming smile.

 

“Well, it wasn’t all whale watching and shore leave,” he says.  “We got ourselves into a number of hairy predicaments, in the North Atlantic especially.  I remember a time we were hunting the U-boat of the German captain Klaus von Eick…”

 

Jade stands, smoothing out the folds of her dress, and goes to refill her drink.  She turns down an offer to dance, slipping past a couple gaily twirling in time to the music.  The bartender has disappeared somewhere, probably off to a secluded corner of the garden if Jade doesn’t miss her guess, so she helps herself to some Arcadia merlot.  There’s a faint popping, and a blue fog coalesces in front of her.  Moments later, a grubby troll in a gardener’s apron wearing a wooden mask with twigs sticking out at odd angles appears.  Snatching up the bottle with a triumphant noise, the troll explodes into a fog again, vanishing from sight and taking the bottle with them.  Jade’s shock wears off rapidly, turning to indignation.  Saturnines!  She strides back over to her seat as Jake is wrapping up his yarn.

 

“…and so after exchanging a few volleys, we took a hit, giving the devil enough time to slip away.  Luckily for us, no one was seriously injured.”

 

“Excuse me, Jake,” Jade says, accidentally knocking into him as she retrieves her satchel from where it hangs on the chair.

 

“What’s the matter?  Tired of the party already?”

 

“Oh, no!” Jade says.  “A Saturnine made off with the last of the wine, so I’m going to get some more.”

 

“What, another one?” another colleague of Jade’s asks.  “Not happy with just the gardening tools or Gertrude’s lunchbox?”

 

“Poor Gertrude,” the first colleague says.  “Hasn’t been able have a full meal in the park in weeks.”

 

Jade picks up her rifle as well.

 

“Hang about!” Jake says, eyeing it up.  “Is that really necessary?”

 

“If I see that troll again, I’m going to ask them very politely for our wine back.”

 

“Wait up, I’m coming too,” Jake says, putting his plate of hors d’oeuvres down and grabbing his jacket.  “I might have a word with these ruffians myself.”

 

“Did they steal from you, too?” Jade asks as they exit the tea garden.  The music and laughter die down somewhat in the concourse.

 

“Well, no,” Jake says.  “Really, it’s more an excuse to get away from the party.  I can’t believe some of the people you work with!  Abominably boring.”

 

“Jake!  That’s not nice,” Jade glares at him.  “And anyway, everyone seemed to enjoy you telling your boring old war stories.”

 

Jake pauses as Jade walks ahead, frowning.

 

“My stories aren’t boring.”

 

“No I guess not, but I’ve heard them all a half a dozen times each,” Jade says.

 

“You’ve heard the ones in La Rochelle?” Jake asks, aghast.

 

“Remember when I was over at your house, and you were having a war buddy reunion?  I heard about La Rochelle, and Marseilles, AND Tripoli.”

 

Jake tries and fails to subdue the redness rising in his cheeks.

 

“You’ve heard the ones about my death-defying expedition into the Sudan?”

 

“You tell that every Christmas.”

 

“Calcutta?”

 

“Once on my birthday, and you also use the part with the coffins when you’re trying to pick up people at bars.”

 

“After what horrors I went through that day, isn’t it only natural to seek comfort every time I think back on it?”

 

The pair arrives at one of the innumerable storerooms secreted away in the corners of Arcadia.  The waters of the concourse lap gently against the cobblestone path as Jade sorts through a couple of crates to find a box packed with straw containing a few bottles of merlot.  She puts them in her satchel.

 

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’re starting to sound like a broken record.  These people might not be able to tell, but I can.”

 

“That’s because we’re old chums, Jade,” Jake says, smiling.  “But I suppose you have got the point rather spot on with regards to my incessant babbling.  I just can’t keep from talking about certain subjects, and I get carried away.  I’ll try harder to be less boring, if that’s alright with you.”

 

He flashes her a wink.  Jade beams.

 

“That would be perfectly acceptable, Sir English.  Oh!”

 

Jade claps her hands together, realization striking her.

 

“You haven’t seen the roses!”

 

“Roses?” Jake asks, a little uncertainly.

 

“It’s a new strain of _Rosa Gallica_ that I’ve been germinating—ever since this whole ADAM craze began, I’ve been trying testing out its capabilities in plants, and I think I’ve nailed down an auto-regenerative vector formula.”

 

Jake looks at her blankly.  Jade rolls her eyes.

 

“They’re for work, fuckass.  Are you going to come and see them?”

 

“Oh!  Right, of course!”

 

Jade leads the way back down the concourse, ducking under a curtain of ivy that has crept its way over the entrance to the waterfall grotto.  Large waterwheels maintain a constant falls into a shallow pond at the bottom of the room, where fish dart about among the rocks.  Jade follows the path down to the pond, crossing a short bridge to a patch of rose bushes.  A few buds have appeared, but none yet bloom.  Jade kneels down to examine a few of the buds.

 

“Damn, I thought these would have matured by now,” she says.  “Could have sworn the growth would’ve been accelerated, but I suppose…”

 

She trails off in thought while Jake looks around the grotto.  Other flowers bloom along the wooden beams supporting the path, and the steady gurgle of water provides a nice counterpoint to the grinding of the wheels.  Jake smiles.

 

“The grotto is quite pretty.”

 

“Yeah,” Jade says, still fussing over the roses.  “I guess you’ll have to come back in a week or so, when these will have bloomed.”

 

She frowns, putting her hands at her hips.  Shaking her head, she stands, and she and Jake make their way back to the party.

 

“I had been counting on ADAM’s rapid cell-replacing properties to speed things up,” Jade says.  “You know, sort of interpret the plants’ growing phase as a kind of constantly-injured state that would need to be fixed.  That’s what it seemed to do for some of the cultures I took back to lab, anyway, and controlling it is incredibly hard.  I’ve been preparing for bad crops that I could’ve dissected, but I suppose underwhelming growth is pretty good, too.  It means that the plants have more fully incorporated the ADAM into their cellular structure, so that my original predictions are mostly wrong: they _are_ growing faster, but into fully viable plants.  I overestimated ADAM’s mutagenic properties by a long shot.”

 

“But that sounds good,” Jake says.  “Because it means that you’re that much closer to completing your vector.”

 

“Maybe,” Jade frowns.  “It might be too early to tell.  I know from the lab notes that Roxy showed me the effects are more dramatically pronounced in people.  Maybe it’s because we’re more complex than plants?  There are more things to go wrong.  And anyway, the roses haven’t bloomed yet.”

 

 

***

 

 

On December 17th an assassin finds John in his office.

 

John sits at his desk, reading a report from English Submarine Disposal and Repair, who have taken over the drainage and reconstruction of the flooded low-income housing block.  He has been in contact with Feferi Peixes about purchasing the block, in order to offset the Foundation’s losses, although as of yet there is no final agreement. 

 

_Personal Diary of John Egbert:_

_I know the implications of purchasing the housing commission, temporarily, from the Foundation.  There goes John, king of Rapture, kicking out the poor chessmen from their homes, probably going to install a theme park in his honor.  I may not be an adept politician, but I understand business, and I know that the wheels that turn Rapture’s economy would grind to a halt if anything were to happen to the Beforan Foundation.  A little infamy is a small price to pay for saving our future._

John puts the audio recorder back into his desk drawer and heaves a sigh.  There’s a click.  He looks up to see someone standing in front of his desk aiming a pistol right between his eyes.  The barrel shakes a little, and static sparks periodically jump from the assassin’s hand to the gun.

 

“Slick,” John says, hitting the intercom button.  The assassin shoots, striking John’s shoulder and causing him to fall backwards.  He throws up a cloud of papers with his now-useless arm, and the next shot misses.  John crawls to the drawer that holds his revolver as two armed security guards burst into the room.

 

The assassin shoots one guard, and electroshocks the other, buying John enough time to stand up, revolver in hand.  He shoots his assailant in the back of the head, a full minute before Slick enters the room, flanked by two goons.

 

“You alright, boss?”

 

“Yeah,” John says.  “I’m fine.”

 

Slick looks impassively over the scene as John takes out a spare bullet for his gun.

 

“Have this place cleaned up,” he instructs as he reloads.  “And for the love of god get me a better security system.  This is the last time I want to be surprised in my own office.”

 

“Sure thing, boss,” Slick says as his goons move to clean up the bodies.  John picks up his papers, re-stacking and re-sorting them.  He glances at the assassin several times as he works—a troll, wearing a bird mask.  John shakes his head.

 

 

***

 

 

Jane’s breakthrough comes suddenly out of the blue one day, and is disappointingly simple.  She’s listened to Rose’s audio recorder a dozen times, to the point where she has memorized the parts she can fast-forward past.  All of her notes add up to precisely no connection between either the Felt, the Midnight Crew, OR the White Knight (and she still has no idea _who_ or even _what_ the that is).  There were very few leprechauns in Rapture, and all of them appeared to be reclusive.  The Midnight Crew comprised of a number of high-profile black chessmen working for Egbert Industries—surely they had no reason to support a popular revolt, and they all by their own admission hated clocks.  The only information that could be had about the White Knight came from messages scrawled on the backs of posters.  Evidently, ‘White Queen’ had not been the only location listed by the mysterious group.  The posters named restaurants, newsstands, specific restrooms in disparate buildings.  There was no pattern that Jane could make out.

 

Then, while looking over her materials for the dozenth time, she remembers the sign outside the Felt Lounge: for two nights only…Snowman!  And it all clicks.

 

“Eureka!” she exclaims, making Vriska, who was snoozing in the corner, jump.  The pirate had taken to napping in Jane’s hospital room while she convalesced, and didn’t take kindly to interruptions.

 

“This had better be good, Crocker,” she mumbles, picking herself up off the floor and rubbing sleep out of her good eye.

 

“Snowman!” Jane says excitedly.  Vriska blinks.

 

“You mean like the three-tiered sphere figure human children make during the winter?”

 

“No, not that,” Jane says.  “Snowman!  She’s a singer who was performing at the Felt Lounge the night that Rose and I infiltrated it!  She ran me through with a sword and had us thrown out the airlock!”

 

“So?”

 

“So she’s the former Black Queen!  Remember, all those years ago, the black queen disappeared, and that's when the chessmen started immigrating.  Snowman is rumored to have an especially vindictive grudge against at least one member of the Midnight Crew.  Well, both Slick and Droog both worked for the crown before she vanished.”

 

“Soooooooo, if we assume that she has beef against either of them, then that’s probable cause for a rivalry between the two gangs, and since one of them happens to run the city then it would explain why the Felt is apparently aiding the White Knight!”

 

“Except that they aren’t,” Jane says.  “At least, I don't think they are.  White Queen wasn’t the only place the posters listed, but it _is_ the headquarters of the Felt as far as we can tell.  It might be that White Knight is naming targets, like we would expect those places to be attacked by rebels if the revolution ever happens.  But some of them don’t make any sense.  A bathroom on the third floor of Heat Loss Monitoring?  The statue of Venus in Eve’s Garden?  It doesn’t add up.  I can’t get a handle on White Knight at all.”

 

Vriska shrugs.

 

“Well, maybe they’re less the People’s Revolution and more the bomb-throwing anarchist types.  Who knows?  Who cares?  The one thing I don’t like about your theory is this: why, if Snowman hates the Midnight Crew, do they keep covering her tracks?”

 

Jane frowns at her notes.  She had forgotten about that.  Vriska suddenly looked thoughtful.

 

“Oh,” she says, a wicked grin slowly blossoming on her face.  “Oh, but this is precious.”

 

“What?”

 

“I think we’ve stumbled upon the scandal of the century,” Vriska says, positively gleeful.  “Too bad your reporter friend died, she might’ve made a killing off of this!”

 

“You’ve lost me.”

 

“Let me put it to you in a way your tiny, unevolved human brain can understand,” Vriska says, tapping at Jane’s forehead for emphasis.  “Snowman, and Slick, probably Slick I’d be willing to bet money, have themselves a healthy, long-standing caliginous fling.”

 

Jane raises an eyebrow at Vriska.

 

“And that means…?”

 

“Hatesex.  Lots of hatesex.  We’re talking buckets and buckets of hatesex up in this bitch.”

 

Vriska paces back and forth as she talks, sometimes gesticulating with her hands.  Jane watches, perplexed.

 

“In that case, of course!  It all makes sense!  The Felt and the Midnight Crew are engaged in a bitter rivalry.  The bitterest of rivalries!  So Slick works for Egbert Industries, and comes down here when John founds Rapture.  Well, not long after, the Felt shows up, led by the former black queen, and Slick’s kismesis.  Soooooooo, naturally she aligns herself against Egbert Industries, and plots the overthrow of John.”

 

“Wait, I’m sorry, how is that the next logical step?” Jane interrupts.  Vriska shoots her an annoyed look.

 

“Egbert’s the top dog in Rapture, and Slick’s something of Egbert’s lapdog.  The whole point of kismessitude is that it’s a rivalry—Snowman’s going to be competing with Slick, over power, fame, wealth, you name it.  Well, what’s the bigger prize?  Kicking the dog, or shooting the dog’s master?  On the one hand, you’ve picked on a dog, and maybe it will hate you, or fear you.  On the other hand, you’ve taken away the dog’s source of food, protection, and comfort all in one go, so now not only does it hate you, but it’s _vulnerable_.”

 

Jane looks at Vriska uncomprehendingly.

 

“Alright, how about this one: say you’ve got it out for some mid-level admin in a company, right?  What do you do to inflict the most misery on him?”

 

“I don’t know!” Jane says, throwing up her hands.  “That’s not something I would ever do!”

 

Vriska sighs, and rolls her eyes.

 

“Forget it,” she says.  “The point is, Snowman’s plotting to overthrow John, one way or another.”

 

 

***

 

 

Dave and Karkat stand on the platform of the Atlantic Express station, waiting for the next train.  Karkat keeps his eyes closed against the constant glare of neon from outside, periodically rubbing his temples.  Dave sighs and glances over.  He still has not replaced his shades.

 

“Told you you’d regret that hangover.”

 

“I don’t want to hear it, Strider,” Karkat snaps.

 

Karkat has the Thompson, and his pistol.  Dave has his sword slung across his back, his own firearm tucked away somewhere Karkat can’t see.  After a half an hour, the train rolls into the station.  A few commuters exit, but the station is otherwise empty.

 

“Guess most people take the metro these days,” Dave says.

 

They ride the train in silence until it reaches its final stop: Dionysus Park.  Dave and Karkat exchange looks, but quickly hop off before the train heads back toward downtown Rapture.  They stare up at the smooth metal statues flanking the entrance to the park.  Nearby an enormous mural covers the station wall—it doesn’t appear to be of anything in particular, more a wash of blues and greens.  Dave looks over to the stationmaster’s office and sees the door hanging open.  He walks over.  Inside, the troll attendant is dozing drunkenly in his chair, a bottle of vodka clutched in his hand.  Dave coughs loudly.

 

“Excuse me,” he says.  The troll attendant wakes up and glances around.

 

“Yeah?” he grunts.

 

“When’s the next train to Cherub Futuristics?”

 

The attendant blinks.

 

“There isn’t one,” he says.  “That line’s closed.”

 

“Well.  I guess I missed the memo on that one.  Thank you.”

 

The attendant nods, and settles back in his seat.  He’s snoring in no time, and Dave sneaks in and steals a few maps from a slot next to the troll’s head.  He returns to Karkat, who is having a squinting contest with the mural.  He taps Karkat’s shoulder.

 

“The trains stop here,” he says.  “But I swiped us these maps so we can see about getting there on foot.”

 

“Fantastic,” Karkat gripes.  “More walking.  Just what I need after a long day of riding trains and feeling like my insides are in open rebellion.  Pardon me while my stomach attempts to jump ship again.”

 

Karkat walks quickly over to a trashcan and dry heaves into it for a minute.  Dave walks over to a nearby bench to plan their route while he recovers.  The first map is a generic station map, while the second is a basic street map of the park—interesting, but not useful.  Karkat slumps down next to Dave and grabs a couple of maps.

 

“Here, look at this one,” he says.  He shows Dave a detailed rendering of the rail line, with signals and repair depots clearly marked.

 

“Looks like there’s an airlock in the station basement,” Dave says.  “Maybe we can get a couple of diving suits and get there on foot.”

 

“Why the fuck would we do that, that’s a stupid goddamn idea.  Let’s just take a street there.”

 

Dave shakes his head.

 

“I don’t know why, but no roads except the Atlantic Express lead to Cherub Futuristics.  Look.”

 

He takes out a Rapture street map, which shows a number of avenues connecting the various districts without going into any finer detail.  Sure enough, none of them lead to Cherub Futuristics, which sits by itself a little removed from the rest of the city.

 

“It’s almost like they didn’t want anyone visiting,” Dave says.

 

“No shit,” Karkat snorts.  “Alright, so we need to get into whatever passes for a maintenance area around here.”

 

“Here’s a park map,” Dave says.  “Might be useful.”

 

“Yeah,” Karkat takes the map, squinting a little so he can read some of the smaller print.  “Okay, it looks like we can get into the basement through this storage room.”

 

“Imago Fine Arts?  Piece of cake.”

 

“Hey, Dave,” Karkat asks.  “You know what we’re in for in here?”

 

“I was here once, a while ago, for a poetry night on the promenade.  Place is full of artists, all hung up on worshiping this guy Dr. Vantas.  I heard him speak on the radio, and he sounds like a real tool, but he doesn’t work for Egbert, so that’s a point in our favor.  Hey, you alright?”

 

Karkat has sucked in a deep breath at the mention of Vantas, but lets it out with a whoosh when Dave pokes his cheek.  He slaps Dave’s hand away.

 

“I’m fine, just.  That guy Vantas is an asshole.  Maybe we should think of something else.”

 

“Ah, I see, more ‘Mysteries from Karkat’s Dark and Terrible Past’.  But this is the best way forward, and we’re already here.  He probably doesn’t even remember you.”

 

“Yeah,” Karkat says.  “Yeah.  Probably not.  Let’s just not run into him regardless.  Or anyone else for that matter.”

 

Dave levels a Look at him.

 

“Something you want to share with the class, Karkat?”

 

“No,” Karkat snaps.  “There’s nothing.  I just want to get out of here, that’s all.”

  
“Bullshit, you weren’t nearly this antsy at the prospect of storming Egbert Industries, city’s most arguably fortified location.”

 

“That’s because neither of us are that deprived of grey matter that we’d actually fucking attempt it, you ass.  But.  Okay, a lot of that guy’s followers ended up in the Drop.  He just…makes me nervous.  I don’t want to have to deal with him if possible.”

 

“See, was that so hard?” Dave asks.

 

“Fuck you, it’s not like you’ve been eager to open up about your past, why the fuck should I have to?”

 

“Because, A, yours is more immediately relevant, and B, all good things, Karkat, all good things.”

 

“…all good things what?”

 

“You serious?  You don’t know that—?  Fuck it, all good things to those who wait.”

 

Dave jumps up and strides over to the park entrance, Karkat hurrying to catch up.  They climb a flight of marble steps lined with palms, the walls covered in breathtakingly detailed mosaics.  At the top of the stairs, they enter a long hall with a rock garden in the middle, a pair of statues of muses posed in the middle.  A banner strung over the statues reads, ‘DIONYSUS PARK’, hanging from the sculpted hands of a pair of cherubim.  Dave and Karkat make their way past the garden, periodically stepping over a drunken, passed out troll or human.  A few chessmen mill about sweeping up the place, but they by and large don’t touch the sleeping revelers.

 

“Aw man, the party’s over already,” Dave says.

 

Past the hall, a long promenade opens up, al fresco cafés sandwiched among art galleries and supply shops.  Large windows overlook a coral garden outside, where the rocks fluoresce pink under the city lights.  Music floats in the air as Dave and Karkat glance around at all the masked revelers milling about.  They exchange looks, and quickly swipe a pair of masks off an unconscious and mostly unclothed couple behind a potted plant.

 

“Nice kitty, Karkat,” Dave says, crow mask firmly in place.  “Hey, this is pretty sweet.  I think I might keep this.”

 

“Ha ha, assfuck,” Karkat sneers.  He wears a cat mask.  “And I’m ditching this thing at the earliest opportunity.  Let’s just get going.”

 

They navigate the crowds as carefully as possible, not straying out of each other’s sight.  Several people hand them drinks or hypos, smiling and laughing.  Karkat shoves the hypos right back to where they came from, but accepts a glass of wine if only so people stop trying to hand him alcohol.  Dave coolly ignores all advances, and the two reach the end of the promenade, where a wide flight of stairs leads down to a carousal, which is lit and turning slowly.

 

“Dave, holy fuck,” Karkat says, pulling on Dave’s sleeve and pointing to a narrow passage leading off the promenade.

 

“What?  My eyesight’s still not that good, Karkat.”

 

A pair of masked revelers feasts on the raw innards of a troll, rusty blood splattered all across the walls.  One of them looks up and spies Karkat’s stare, grinning widely and crawling toward him on all fours like a predator.

 

“Here, kitty, kitty,” the reveler says, beckoning.  “I’ve got a nice bowl of milk for you.”

 

“Seriously, man?  That line is way cliché,” Dave says.

 

“Dave, come on,” Karkat yanks him along toward the carousal, the plaintive entreaties of the reveler fading out of earshot.

 

The carousal room is alight with lanterns, glittering gilded wall panels spanning up to the domed ceiling.  More revelers ride the carousal, or lounge around the edges of the room indulging in wine and plasmids.  Karkat watches as a woman scrawls a lengthy poem on the wall in her own blood, and Dave has to pull him out of the way of a pair of dancing splicers.

 

“Okay, where to now, Karkat?  I can see what you mean, this place is seriously damaging my calm.”

 

“Uh,” Karkat stutters, but the route to Imago Fine Arts has fled his memory.  A pair of splicers have noticed him, and are making their way over, blood leaking out of fresh holes in their veins.  Dave is busy watching a trio by the carousal who are making a show of not spying on them.  Karkat reaches for Dave’s arm to get his attention, but misses.

 

“Well, look what we have here,” one of the splicers says, in a low hiss.  He smells the air around Karkat.  “Fresh.  What do you think?”

 

“I think he’s fresh and ready for plucking,” the other replies, coming on close on Karkat’s left.  “What do you say, kitten?  Shall we go for a walk in the park?”

 

“D--,” Karkat tries, but he is paralyzed by fear.

 

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” the first splicer cracks up howling.  Dave turns and sees Karkat, pushing himself between him and the splicers.

 

“Easy there, boys, you don’t want to mess with this guy,” Dave says.  The first splicer stops laughing.

 

“Who’s that?  Smells like a lightning storm.  Careful, kitten, he might shock you!”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Dave snarls.  “Karkat, let’s go.”

 

“Oh, but why?” the second splicer says, dogging Karkat.  The trio by the carousal break off from what they were doing to shadow them.  “We just wanted to take you for a walk.  We swear we didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

“Listen, buddy,” Dave says.  “Back the fuck off if you don’t want me to cut off your fucking head.”

  
“Tee hee!” the splicer giggles, and backs off.  Dave and Karkat climb up a flight of stairs to the second level of the room, which leads to a stone atrium.  They go inside, but the door out is locked

 

“Karkat, get your gun out,” Dave says.  He looks back, and sees the three splicers climb up over the edge of the balcony, cornering them.  Dave stands protectively in front of Karkat, hand on his sword ready to draw.  The splicers are armed with plasmids and improvised weapons—one has a scalpel, one has a pipe wrench.  Karkat backs up to take cover in the doorframe leading out of the atrium.  Through the glass in the door, he can see a well-furnished hall beyond, and a sign reading, ‘Imago Fine Arts’.

 

“Dave, Imago Fine Arts is behind this door,” Karkat hisses.  Dave draws his sword.

 

“See if you can get that door open.  I think it’s locked.”

 

Karkat jiggles the handle, but can’t open it.  The glass is shatterproof—he can’t smash it with the butt of his gun.  Beyond the door, sleeping on the floor, is a troll with large oxen horns.  He’s surrounded by empty bottles and a few spent hypos, but Karkat doesn’t care.  He bangs on the door.

 

“Hey!  Asshole!  Wake up and open this door!”

 

The splicers attack, throwing blasts of incinerate and running forward.  Dave dodges the fireballs, and cuts at the nearest splicer, who dodges, cart wheeling backwards to avoid the strike.  The troll in the galleries stirs when Karkat bangs again, but Karkat doesn’t have time for this.  He turns around and fires on the splicer throwing fireballs, missing both shots.  The splicer laughs, jumping up to stick to the ceiling.

  
“Oh fuck, not this again,” Karkat swears.  Dave cuts off the arm of the splicer holding the scalpels.  It writhes on the ground, screaming and leaking blood everywhere.  Two more splicers run up the stairs, weapons in hand.  Karkat turns back to the troll inside the gallery.

 

The troll is sitting up, massaging his head, but looks up at Karkat when he bangs on the window again.

 

“Open the fucking door!”

 

The troll’s eyes widen, and he quickly gets to his feet, bustling over to the door.  There’s a click, and the troll opens it.

 

“It’s about fucking—,” Karkat says, but he’s cut off as the troll pulls him inside and into a backbreaking hug.

 

“Oh, my gog, I thought, that you were gone,” the troll breaths into Karkat’s hair, breath smelling strongly of wine.  “But you’re back, you’re back, I can’t believe it, you’re back.”

 

Karkat understands exactly nothing of what’s happening.  He hears Dave shouting for him, however.  It’s time to improvise.

 

“Yes, great, I’m back, but I need you to help me,” Karkat says, prying himself free.  “I need to save my friend.”

 

The troll nods, puffing out his chest and taking a hypo out of his pocket full of vibrant blue liquid.  He injects it into his arm, and Karkat watches in horror as a green ball bubbles out of his wrist to fall in his hand.

 

“Leave it to me,” the troll says, and goes back to the door.  Karkat watches as, moments before Dave would surely be overwhelmed, the troll strikes all the splicers surrounding him with green balls, which splatter against their heads.  Instantly, they go docile, flocking toward the troll and standing in front of him like dogs.

 

“Go back home,” the troll says.  “And, uh, sleep it off.”

 

The splicers nod and walk off obediently.  Dave dispatches a splicer the troll missed.  The troll ignores him, and returns to Karkat, smiling like a wriggler opening a present at Christmas.  Dave checks the area for more splicers before following, closing the door behind him.

 

“So, that was close,” he says.  “Thanks, uh…”

 

“Tavros,” the troll says, standing near Karkat.

 

“Right.  Dave Strider, nice to meet you,” Dave says, holding out his hand, which Tavros shakes.

 

“So you’re, Kankri’s friend,” Tavros says.  “I mean, uh, sorry, you’re Doctor Vantas’s friend.”

 

“Who?”

 

“YES,” Karkat shouts, desperately signaling to Dave.  Dave’s raised eyebrow is concealed by his mask.  “THAT’S EXACTLY RIGHT.”

 

“Dude, what are you talking about.”

 

“There’s, uh, no need to shout, Doctor,” Tavros says.

 

“Karkat, why does this guy keep calling you Doctor?”

 

Karkat bites his lip while Tavros gives Dave a confused look.  He shakes his head warningly, but Dave ignores him.

 

“Why did you, call him Karkat?  That’s not his name.”

 

“Yeah it is, I’ve been bumming with this guy for like three weeks, I think I would know his name.”

 

“I think I would recognize Kankri, alright,” Tavros says.  “We, were pretty close, for a while, right?”

 

Tavros turns to Karkat who has clammed up.  Color rises to his cheeks as he desperately prays to any god that will listen to end this moment, or possibly his life.  Dave touches him on the shoulder.

 

“Dude, calm down.”

 

Karkat lets out all the air he’d been holding in.  Tavros, watching this, tries to hold back a gleeful smile unsuccessfully.

 

“Karkat, what’s going on?” Dave asks.  Karkat looks down at his feet, and then looks up at Tavros, who has the decency to wipe the delight off his face.

 

“Tavros?” Karkat starts, and Tavros comes forward.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not…I’m not Doctor Vantas.  I’m not Kankri.  My name is Karkat Vantas.  We’re…relatives.”

 

Tavros’s eyes have gone as wide as saucers.  A brown blush climbs up his face, and he hides his mouth behind his hands.  Karkat doesn’t dare look at Dave, instead focusing on how Tavros appears to be having a quiet conversation with himself in his embarrassment.

 

“I don’t know what he was to you,” Karkat says.  “I’ve been away for a long, long time.  So, I’m also sorry for manipulating you earlier.  I only wanted to save Dave’s life, I wasn’t thinking about how fucked up this whole situation very quickly became.”

 

Tavros nods, and lets his arms fall.

 

“It’s okay,” he says.  “You were, looking out for your moirail, and I can respect that.  I just thought,,,”

 

“Okay, can we not?” Karkat asks.

 

“Dude, guy’s baring his heart here, the least you could do is listen,” Dave says.

 

“No, the least I can do is absolutely nothing.  This is why I didn’t want to come this way!  I didn't want to run into Kankri, and I didn’t want to run into any of his gogdamned followers.  No offense, Tavros.  You seem pretty okay.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” Tavros says, awkwardly.

 

“Where is he, anyway?  You said he was gone.  Not that I’m dropping by to visit that self-righteous asshole.”

 

“Oh, uh, you don’t, know?” Tavros asks.  “I would’ve thought, being his relative, that you’d be able to answer that.”

 

“What!?  Fuck no!  I was in the Drop for the last six years!  Why the fuck would I know where that pedantic fuckwipe went?”

 

“Well,” Tavros says.  “It’s not nice, of you to talk about him like that.  You may not have, a very high opinion of him, but I do, and I would ask that you please, dispense with the derogatory language.”

 

“Good luck with that, pal,” Dave says.  “Asking Karkat not to cuss is like asking fish to breath air.  It’s fatal if he tries.”

 

Karkat resists the urge to punch Dave.  Tavros laughs a bit, but then his expression turns sad.

 

“Well, after the public debates, last month,” he says.  “Kankri called me, to his office, and told me he’d be leaving for a while.  And then, the next day, he was gone, and his office, was ransacked.  I don’t know what happened.”

 

“John,” Dave says.  “That’s classic Egbert right there.”

 

Tavros nods sagely.  Karkat blanches suddenly.

 

“Holy shit, that means,” he says, looking at Dave.

 

“He’ll be in Persephone,” Dave finishes.

 

“Mother fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The temporal reference frame of this story is unhinged at the best of times.


	10. Out The Airlock

Cronus has never held a gun before.  It has a bit of heft, a nice weight that terrifies him as much as it brings him comfort.  _This wvill get the job done_ , he thinks, while simultaneously considering, _It should not be this easy to get one of these._   After just a few dollars in a vending machine, he has the gun, and the bullets.  Now all he needs is the venue.

 

He finds Roxy passed out on the sofa in his living room, bottle in hand.  Meulin, he knows, is asleep on a pile of dolls in the guest room.  They couldn’t find anywhere else to go on such short notice, so Cronus has been forced to put them up.  Ever since, Roxy has been in a depression, drinking herself incoherent after she returns with Meulin in tow from their nightly walks.

 

“It’sh part of their conditionariesing.  They jusscan’t _not_ go srichign for ADAM.”

 

Roxy snores loudly while Cronus looks at her from the door to his room.  It causes his bloodpusher to ache, seeing her like this—but compared to how much he hates himself, Roxy Lalonde is just another drop of water in the sea.  His sighs, gills flaring a little, and walks to the front door.  He thinks he’ll go to the Footlight, probably his dressing room.  He doesn’t have a gig that night, but he’s always wanted to go out like one of those old silent movie stars—dramatically, without a word.

 

He’s at the door when Roxy sits up, stretching, and yawns.  She blinks at him before he gets a chance to abscond.

 

“Where’re you goin’?”

 

“Out.  Wvhat, I need a permit to leavwe my owvn home nowv?”

 

Roxy isn’t looking Cronus in the eye.  She’s looking at the hand that holds the gun.

 

“I wvas thinkin’ wve wvere running lowv on groceries, okay?  I’m running to the fish market for a bit, I’ll be back before you knowv it.”

 

Roxy’s gaze slowly, hazily, travels from the gun to Cronus’s face.  Her expression is unreadable.  She sighs, shoulders slumping, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

 

“Alright, I’m not gonna stop you,” she says, looking at Cronus again.  “But just…shit.  I can’t deal this early in the morning.”

 

“It’s late afternoon,” Cronus says, pointing at the clock.  “You wvere asleep most of the day.”

 

Roxy nods, and curls back up on the couch.  Cronus thinks she looks as though she is trying to make herself as small as possible.

 

“When you get back, bring me somethin to drink.  Non-alcoholic,” she says.  “Gotta set a good example for the kid, you know?”

 

Cronus doesn’t answer at first.  He opens his mouth to say something, but Roxy isn’t paying attention, so he leaves the flat and makes his way up to the Footlight. 

 

The streets around Neptune are full of posters of the White Knight.  Cronus sees a couple of young trolls vandalizing some with buckets of paint, laughing derisively at the heroically posed chess man with a pail on his head.  Shops have been putting out signs advertising New Year’s sales, still two weeks away, and Cronus briefly considers that he’ll never be able to browse through a discount clothing clearance sale again.

 

He’s at the Footlight sooner than he had originally planned, and lets himself in through the side entrance.  The place is closed, and smells of sewage—the wall dividing the Footlight from the neighboring establishment’s bathroom was somehow destroyed.  Cronus wrinkles his nose on his way backstage.  His dressing room is unlocked, and Cronus throws himself down into his chair upon entering.  He hasn’t relaxed his death grip on the gun, but now he wants a cigarette, and makes the difficult decision to put it down on the makeup counter.

 

His hands are shaking as he takes out his lighter when he notices a crumpled piece of paper in the corner.

 

It’s the missing poster that someone slipped under his door.  Meulin smiles out from the photo, a little blurry and out of focus, but distinctly her.  Cronus flattens it out so he can see the details better: little conical horns, a ribbon keeping the long tangles out of her face, eyes wide, cute button nose…

 

Cronus imagines what the scene will look like the next day when the stage manager comes in: they’ll find him in his chair, purple splattered across the mirror, gun hanging uselessly from his hand or somewhere on the floor, this poster the only other thing on his person.  Would anyone be able to figure it out?  Roxy would, but she wouldn’t ever see Cronus’s final tableau.  Nepeta might, but she was even less likely to ever come back to the Footlight.  They might ask her about the poster.

 

Cronus doesn’t want to cause her any more anguish.  She was better off never having met him—then he wouldn’t have come into her life, and ruined everything just by being an unthinking, colossal failure of a troll.  He’s scum; he’s worthless.  If it hadn’t been for him, Meulin would still be the happy little girl in the poster.  A dozen other girls would never have been subjected to Roxy’s procedures.

 

Roxy.

 

“Shit,” Cronus says quietly, defeatedly.

 

_Roxy has it worse_ , he thinks.  _She’s the one wvho invwented the wvhole Little Sister program.  She’s the one wvho had to put all them girls through that torture.  Evwery single one of them is her fault, her responsibility.  She knewv it, and she wvent ahead and did it._

Cronus takes a deep drag on his cigarette.

 

_Maybe she’s got the right idea; I ought to just drink my sorrowvs awvay._

Cronus snorts, and looks at the poster again.  Roxy drinks so that she can forget about all the dreadful things she’s done.  But Roxy still tries to do what she thinks is right—she made damn sure the girls were well-treated while she was at Cherub Futuristics, then Egbert Industries, and she got Meulin out before they could do more things to her, things that she wouldn’t have any say in or be able to change.  Roxy has more reason than Cronus to hate herself, but where is she now?

 

Back at home, waiting for Meulin to get up so she can take her on a walk, buy her candy and give her what little bit of a childhood is still left to her.  And where’s Cronus?  Sitting in his dressing room, contemplating putting a bullet in his thinkpan because he can’t stand the sight of his own reflection anymore.

 

Cronus remembers the previous evening: how Nepeta had confronted Roxy, and Roxy hadn’t lifted a finger to defend herself; how she witnessed the troll’s despair, and had no comfort to offer; how he, Cronus, had just stood there and watched, stood there too wrapped up in his own misery to intervene on Roxy’s behalf, try to calm Nepeta down.  The only one who did anything was Meulin, and most of what Meulin did was cry when it looked like Roxy was going to be hurt.

 

Meulin.  A scared, confused, frightened little troll who can’t begin to understand the terrible world she lives in.

 

What was it that she had said?

 

_“Mister Cronus always says you got to have faith.  Maybe your Meulin’s looking for you, too!”_

Cronus is crying.  The gun is forgotten on the counter, and Cronus has his face in his hands as purple tears roll down to his gills, dropping on the floor.  He puts his cigarette out in the ashtray, sniffing.  The ashtray is mostly full, so he dumps it into the trashcan before getting another cigarette.  He reaches for his hankie, and then remembers he’d lent it to Nepeta weeks ago and never got it back.  He has a spare in the closet.

 

After wiping his face and blowing his nose, he gives himself a long, hard look in the mirror.  Puffy yellow eyes stare back at him, two scars, slicked back hair, wavy horns.  He needs sleep—he’s been having too many nightmares lately.  He should quit smoking—black shit has started building up in his gills, which would be less of a problem if he swam more frequently.  Maybe he should take up swimming regularly.

 

He lights the second cigarette anyway and sits back down.  An ironic laugh slips out, and then he can’t help but giggle uncontrollably for a few minutes.

 

“Fuck me, I am such a failure I don’t evwen _wvant_ shoot myself!”

 

Still laughing, he finishes his second cigarette, lights a third, and gets up to leave, sparing one last glance at the gun.  It’ll still be there if he changes his mind.

 

The streets of Rapture are more crowded at this time of day, especially since, due to the vandalism, clean up has rerouted foot traffic, sending Cronus easily a mile out of his way.  At a crowded square, he suddenly can’t move any further.  Try as he might, pushing his way through the scrum of trolls, chessmen, and humans doesn’t get him more than a few feet.

 

He hears over the noises of the crowd a rolling, rumbling moan like a whale.  There’s a hush, and lumbering footsteps echo through the square.  The crowd pushes back, crushing Cronus into a nearby statue of the founder.  He pulls himself up onto its dais, getting a head over everyone else, and sees the source of the noises.

 

A large…thing, wearing an armored diving suit, holds a rivet gun pointed at the nearest people in the crowd.  Cronus can’t see its feet, but he can hear someone humming a singsong tune.  They sound young.  The thing groans menacingly whenever anyone tries to get too close.  Lights behind its helmet glass burn yellow.

 

The crowd starts trickling out the way it came, when there’s shouting up at the front and several people are pushed forward toward the thing.  The lights change to red, and with loud, pneumatic pops it shoots each of them once, destroying heads, bodies, limbs.  People scream as stray rivets strike them, and the crowd is rushing out of the square back down the avenue Cronus had arrived by.  He remains on the dais, afraid that he might get trampled if he dismounts, until quite suddenly there are less than five people in the square who are still alive, himself included.  The thing’s faceplate still glows red as it guns down the retreating figures.  Cronus is stunned—there are at least a dozen people dead on the ground.  He looks up just as the thing aims its gun at him.

 

“All done, Mr. B!”

 

A Little Sister wipes her mouth on her arm, skipping over to the thing and tugging on its suit.  The lights change back to yellow, and it allows itself to be led out of the area by the small child.  Cronus’s knees give out, and he sinks to the ground by the dais.  His hand falls in something wet—red blood, from a dead human nearby.  He stares at it.

 

When he gets back home, Roxy and Meulin are awake, Meulin running around with her syringe, one of the dolls clutched in her other hand.  The doll is of a tiger, one of its button eyes missing.  Roxy sits at the table with a pen and paper, writing.  She looks up at the door opening, and her eyes widen when she sees Cronus.

 

“Welcome back,” she says.

 

“Mister Cronus!  Mister Cronus!  Look, I found a dollie!” Meulin says, running up to Cronus and presenting her tiger to him.

 

“Awv, wvould you look at that,” he says, forcing a smile.  “Wvhat’s its name?”

 

“ _Her_ name is Meow Lion!”

 

“Meowv Lion?  Isn’t that just your name wvith more puns?”

 

“Nu-uh!  My name’s Meulin.  It’s different.”

 

“Wvhatevwer you say, kid,” Cronus says, going over to Roxy, Meulin in tow.  Roxy has a couple of sheets of formulas before her, and it looks like she’s been working for some time.  Cronus pulls up a seat, Meulin clambering up on the table’s third chair.  She is barely tall enough that she can look over the tabletop while sitting.

 

“Thought you were bringing groceries back,” Roxy remarks.

 

“Uh,” Cronus says.  He had forgotten saying that.

 

“Uh-oh, Mister Cronus is in trouble,” Meulin whispers.  Roxy smiles at her.

 

“Mister Cronus certainly is in trouble, Meulin.  We’re gonna have to put our heads together and think of a suitable punishment, aren’t we?”

 

Meulin giggles.  Cronus has the good grace to look mildly affronted.

 

“I’ll havwe you knowv that there’s a perfectly legitimate reason wvhy I didn’t get any groceries today.”

 

“And what reason might that be?”

 

Cronus glances at Meulin, who stares accusingly at him, peeking out from under the table edge at him.

 

“Hey, Meulin, wvhy don’t you take Meowv Lion ovwer to the televwision for a bit.  Gotta hash somethin’ out wvith Miss Roxy.”

 

“Okay,” Meulin says, sticking her tongue out at him and scampering off into the living room.  Cronus waits until he hears the sound of commercial advertisements from the living room.  Roxy regards him curiously.

 

“I sawv…I don’t evwen knowv wvhat, it wvas this guy in a divwing suit wvith a gun, and he wvas wvith a Little Sister, and then he started shooting people just ‘cuz they got a bit too close.  He wvould’vwe shot me, too, except the girl wvas finished wvhatevwer it wvas she wvas doin’,” Cronus runs his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit.  “Just, fuck, wvas that wvhat you wvere talkin’ about wvhen you brought Meulin here?”

 

Roxy purses her lips.

 

“Yeah,” she says.  “They’re called Protectors, officially, but some of the technicians started callin’ ‘em Big Daddies, since they’re supposed to be taking care of the girls like some kind of fucked up armored parental figure.”

 

Cronus nods.

 

“That’s fuckin’ terrifying,” he says.

 

“This whole thing is terrifying,” Roxy says.  “It all just exploded so fast, no one stopped to think about what might happen when people start splicing irresponsibly, or what kind of price we’d have to pay to keep up ‘positive growth’.”

 

Roxy makes air quotes as she talks, rolling her eyes.

 

“I just…I see these girls.  I look at Meulin, and all I can think is, ‘she won’t have a childhood, she won’t grow up normally, we have no idea if the slug will even let her grow up’.”

 

Roxy’s hand has curled into a fist on the table.  Cronus is tempted to reach out and put his hand over it.  Roxy speaks again before he can fully manage the maneuver, his hand falling limply on the table nearby.

 

“I’ve got something in mind, it’s gonna bring this whole circus act down around their ears,” she’s talking as if to someone far away, her gaze locked in middle distance.  “If it works.”

 

Roxy comes back to the present, looking over at Cronus.

 

“How are you doin?” she asks.  Cronus blanches a little at the question.

 

“Don’t ask me that.  I don’t evwen knowv.  But,” he says, sighing heavily.  “I don’t havwe the gun anymore.”

 

Roxy nods.

 

“I know I’m just a dizzy drunk, but if you ever need to jam about that conscience of yours, let me know.”

 

 

***

 

 

The basement of Imago Fine Arts holds easily several hundred paintings in its many nooks and crannies.  Tavros follows behind Dave and Karkat as they sneak their way down to the lowest sections, where the machine rooms are.  Dave, still wearing his crow mask, has been silent since Karkat’s revelation, despite Tavros’s best attempts to engage either of them in conversation.

 

“So, uh, if it’s not, too much trouble, might I ask, what it is that you think you’re doing down here?”

 

“Butt out, Tavros,” Karkat snaps.

 

“I think, I liked it better, when you were being manipulative,” Tavros says.  “Because you were less rude, to everyone.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I am a goddamn piece of work,” Karkat says, stopping so that he can thrust his finger in Tavros’s face.  “But for once, I’m doing this out of the decency of my heart: you do not want to follow us.  Go back upstairs to the party.  Get out of our fucking hair.”

 

“But, uh, I don’t, want to do that?”

 

“Why the fuck not?  How is a literally bottomless supply of booze any better than this dank shithole?”

 

“Well, I took your previous conversation, to mean, that you were looking for Kankri, because you knew where he was.”

 

“That’s the opposite of what we’re doing.”

 

“But you said,,,”

 

“Listen, I don’t give two fucks, aerial or otherwise, about that lying, backstabbing piece of shit, alright?  If you want a spot on Team Doomed To Die Horribly, talk to that douchebag.”

 

Karkat gestures at Dave, who is searching through a locker room.  Tavros is taken aback, but doesn’t pursue Karkat, who has gone off to kick over trashcans in a different part of the basement.  He walks up to Dave, who has found a diving suit and is in the middle of putting it on.

 

“Uh, excuse me,” he clears his throat.  Dave looks at him impassively. 

 

“Something I can help you with?”

 

“I just, wanted to know, that is to say,” Tavros stammers a little.  “What are you guys doing, and if it’s alright, can I maybe help?”

 

Dave considers him for a moment.

 

“Why?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Why do you want to help us?  What’s your take away from this?  When weighing the possible pros and cons of leaving behind your hedonistic lifestyle to join our ragtag pair, what was the deciding factor?  Do you see what I’m getting at, or should I phrase it more differently?”

 

“No, thanks, I get it,” Tavros says.  “I’m not an idiot, just, a little hard of hearing sometimes.”

 

Tavros shifts his weight a little nervously.

 

“I want to know, where Kankri is,” Tavros says.

 

“Well, as I’m sure my superlatively vociferous companion has already told you, we’re not looking for him.”

 

“No, but you said, he would be in a place, called Persephone, and judging by the way Kankri’s relative reacted, I assumed that you were, also, going there.”

 

Dave nods.

 

“Nice spot check,” he says.  “Tell you what: you saved our asses back there, even though you didn’t have to.  It would be unchivalrous of us not to help you out in return.  So, here’s the deal: you can accompany us until we find Persephone.  But we’re not helping you find your Doctor—we’ve got our own people in there, and we need to find out what happened to them.”

 

Tavros nods, and smiles.  Dave tosses him a diving suit.

 

“You might want to search around for a helmet that’ll fit your horns.  Should be no trouble—these were mostly designed for trolls to use.”

 

Dave, now wearing his suit, goes in search of Karkat, who is standing in front of the airlock.

 

“Can you believe this is just fucking here?  Like, any idiot with one sixth of a working brain could just open it up and walk out.”

 

“Yeah, it’s almost like the ocean is just one leaky window from slapping us in the balls.”

 

Karkat sighs, but doesn’t look at Dave.  Dave for his part is content to stand there and let the troll collect himself, or whatever it is that Karkat does when he gets into an introspective funk.

 

“So, you’re a Vantas,” Dave says abruptly.  Karkat stiffens.  “Wouldn’t have seen that one coming, although I guess it makes sense in a way.”

 

“Just shut the fuck up,” Karkat says, with no real venom in his words.

 

“It’s not as if you lied to me,” Dave goes on.  “You wanted your secrets, and who am I to try and take them from you?  A man’s got to keep some things to himself, that’s just how it is.”

 

Karkat snarls and shoves Dave, causing him to stumble backwards.  He stomps off toward the lockers, livid.

 

“I don’t have to fucking listen to this.  I don’t have to take this bullshit from _you_.  What, like I’m the only one here who’s ashamed of something?  It’s not like I fucking asked to be spawned a mutant red-blooded freak.  I didn’t fucking _want_ to be saddled with a clan of self-righteous assholes who can’t just leave well enough the fuck alone.  So what if my cousin or brother or whatever the fuck other bullshit human label you want to use to describe this genetic bond is Doctor Kankri fucking Vantas?  Unless he has personally wronged you in some deep, significant way, you don’t even have the right to talk to me like I should apologize.  So don’t you fucking _dare_ speak to me about lying or secrets, Dave Strider.  Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

 

Karkat throws open the nearest locker and takes out a diving suit.  It’s a little too big, but he can deal with a little slackness in the arms and legs.  Tavros is standing nearby, eyes wide from Karkat’s outburst, wearing a wide helmet to accommodate his horns.  Karkat glances at him.

 

“The fuck are you dressed like that for?”

 

“Uh, well,” Tavros stammers.

 

“He’s coming with us,” Dave says, from the doorway.  Karkat looks from Tavros to Dave, betrayal written on his face.  “At least as far as Persephone.  Don’t worry, the plan hasn’t changed.”

 

“Oh, so what was that about not putting people into danger?  Does that just not apply all of a sudden?”

 

If Dave is blushing, Karkat can’t tell, but the steely edge in his voice might be the most he can expect the human to convey embarrassment.

 

“I trust him not to get himself killed,” Dave says.  “He’s got a pretty good command of whatever plasmid he used to, and maybe you forgot this part, _save both of our lives_ earlier today.  I don’t care what he does when we get there, but if he wants to tag along, then I for one don’t see the problem with letting him.”

 

Now it’s Karkat’s turn to be embarrassed, but he’ll be damned if he lets Dave take the high ground from him.  Tavros merely stands awkwardly to the side, not really saying anything.

 

“Good.  Fine.  Maybe you can also pay him to stick with us when we get to Persephone.  I guess it won’t be that fucking difficult since he at least wants to go there.”

 

“I, uh, don’t--,” Tavros begins.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Karkat snaps, forcing his helmet on and securing it to his suit.  It’s heavy, and muffles his hearing considerably.  He hears Dave talking to him, but he doesn’t even respond, simply walks past the human to the airlock.  Dave and Tavros follow after a few minutes later, Dave checking each of their helmets to make sure they’re secured.  He seals the door, and turns the pressure crank, flooding the airlock and opening the exterior door.

 

The seafloor is rocky and uneven.  Rapture rises up out of the darkness around them, however, neon lights like stars against the black ocean.  By the lights of Dionysus Park, they find the Atlantic Express, a gently curving track on pylons embedded into the seafloor.  They watch a train leave the station, its headlamp blazing, and walk in the opposite direction toward Cherub Futuristics.

 

At the foot of every pylon is an oxygen depot, lit by a red flashing light.  The tracks themselves aren’t illuminated, and so it’s only by these landmarks that the three are able to proceed.  Karkat stops at one of these, feeling lightheaded, but finds the oxygen tanks imploded.  He taps Dave’s shoulder and points to the station, and then at his helmet, hoping that Dave gets the idea.  Dave shrugs and keeps walking.

 

Karkat begins to pant as they climb a steady, rocky rise.  The ocean weighs heavily on his shoulders, and he finds the going dizzying.  He stops to breathe, realizing that his helmet is fogging up, making his journey even more difficult.  He’s sweating, and breathing heavily, and now he can’t even see.  Beyond the glass, he can make out a dim shape moving toward him—either Dave or Tavros, he can’t really tell.  He throws his hand toward them, pleading for them to take it.

 

They do, and he sighs in relief.  They get to an oxygen station that works, and Karkat changes out the air in his suit.  The glass clears up somewhat, but he’s still blind enough that he doesn’t let go of whomever is leading him.  He can see, through the murk, a large neon sign that looks like the Cherub Futuristics logo.  They crest the ridge they were climbing, and Karkat can see lights ahead of them around what looks like another airlock.  They’ve walked easily a couple miles by this point, and Karkat would like nothing better than to be out of the ocean. 

 

They get inside, and as soon as the airlock has drained, Karkat rips his helmet off, sucking in a deep breath.  Tavros, who was at the back, takes off his helmet as well.

 

“That was, unpleasant,” he says.

 

“Fuck, I hope we don’t have to do that again,” Karkat says.  “I couldn’t see for shit.”

 

Dave removes his helmet and steps outside.  There’s a locker area where he ditches his suit, not waiting up for the other two as he walks toward the exit.

 

“Hey, fucker, wait the hell up!” Karkat shouts, struggling out of his own suit.

 

Dave stops and turns around when Karkat finally catches up to him in the hallway outside.  He takes his mask off and tosses it in front of him at Karkat’s feet.

 

“What’s your deal, Karkat?” Dave asks.

 

“Gee, where do I start?” Karkat asks sarcastically.

 

“Let me ask you something.  Serious question time, Karkat: can you hear me out without throwing a hissy fit?”

 

“What the fuck are you going on about?”

 

“You are a goddamn piece of work, you know that?  And I’m not talking about your whole prickly because I can’t let people know I’m really a delicate little flower blossom on the inside act.  I’m not talking about whatever fucked up past you’ve got that keeps you from sleeping at night.  I’m talking about the bit where you just casually throw shit in my face, and then act like nothing’s changed.  What, so you’re sensitive about your relatives?  Big fucking deal.  I can understand that.  I can respect it, even.  Hell, if you want I’ll never say the word ‘Vantas’ ever again.  I would do that for you, because I at least respect that you have boundaries.  But where the fuck do you get off, accusing me of being a liar, and a mercenary?  What gives you the right to dredge up my personal shit in front of a fucking stranger?”

 

“Oh, what, just because I bring up one thing you said one time?  Oh no, Dave Strider isn’t the cool legendary badass everyone thought so!  How will we learn to cope?”

 

“That’s not even relevant, and you know it,” Dave says.  “You want to know something?  I can go ahead and make the past three weeks completely meaningless if you want.  The instant we find out the location of Persephone, you’ll get your last paycheck, and you can be on your merry fucking way.  I won’t need you anymore.  Is that what you want?  Because suddenly I’m not so sure anymore.”

 

Karkat is stunned, equal parts insulted, offended, shocked, and upset.  Dave stares at him intently, his eyes the only part of his face conveying expression.  Dave is…hurt.  Huh.

 

Behind them, Tavros falls over, still struggling with his diving suit.  He looks at them sheepishly from where he lies, surreptitiously trying to kick off the last bit of suit tangled around his ankles.

 

“Uh, can I get, a hand please?  I seem to have tripped.”

 

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Dave says, all business.  He helps Tavros to his feet, and sets back off down the hall.  They ascend a flight of stairs and find themselves in an Atlantic Express canteen.  The station itself is nearby, and they force open a few doors to get inside.  Through a large bay window, they can see the Cherub Futuristics building.  Submarines appear to be docked outside it.

 

“What’s happening?”

 

“Looks like some sort of to-do is going on over there,” Dave posits.  “We’ll have to be careful.”

 

“Oh!” Tavros says.  “It’s the, auction.”

 

“The what?” Dave asks.

 

“Cherub Futuristics, is being sold off piecemeal, sort of like a bankruptcy.  I read about it, in Porrim Maryam’s column.  She, is rather spiteful, but her points are always, I think, interesting and well-informed.”

 

“She’s still in print?” Dave asks.  “Huh, would’ve thought she’d’ve been arrested by now.”

 

“So now what?” Karkat asks.  “It was one thing when we were trying to sneak past a maybe empty building.”

 

“Now it’s more fun,” Dave says.  “Besides, we probably don’t even need to encounter anyone—if it’s an auction, then everyone’s sitting in one place, not wandering around where we might run into them.  It’ll be a piece of cake.”

 

“Besides, uh, even if we do, run into anyone that might take issue with our presence,” Tavros says, tossing a green ball in his hand.  “We don’t, actually, have to fight them.”

 

“Failing that,” Dave says.  “We can always just shoot them.”

 

“Right,” Karkat says.  “Alright.  That’s what we’ll do.”

 

They exit the station through a wide glass tunnel that winds its way around the coral garden in front of the Cherub Futuristics building.  The double doors at the end open to reveal a stately lobby with wood panels and crystal chandeliers.  A grand staircase sweeps up to the second floor, where a security booth guards the entrance into the rest of the facility.  Doors to the right and left lead to service areas and mechanical rooms.

 

“Any ideas?” Dave asks.

 

“So, what exactly, is Persephone?” Tavros asks.  Dave and Karkat both look at him nonplussed.  “You, uh, never exactly, got around to telling me.”

 

“It’s a high-security prison,” Dave says.

 

“Uh, wow, okay,” Tavros says, eyes widening.  “Maybe, then, we should try and find, the security room?”

 

“You mean like the booth up there?” Karkat asks.

 

Tavros shrugs.  Dave leads the way up the stairs to the booth, where a camera points at them.

 

“Scanning.  Please remain still,” a mechanical voice says.

 

“Holy shit, what,” Karkat says as a light blinds them.  A minute later, it turns off.

 

“Identification: Unknown.  Please wait for the next available security personnel.”

 

“Uh,” Tavros says intelligently.

 

“What just happened?” Dave asks.

 

Karkat strides forward past the booth.  A small waiting area is behind it, and he pries open the door into the booth with his crowbar.  Inside is a screen showing Dave and Tavros, and a radio receiver.  Karkat puts on the pair of headphones attached to it, but hears only static.

  
“Guys, I think we’re fine,” he says.  “No one’s actually paying attention to this camera.”

 

“We need a facility map,” Dave says.

 

“We need to find a set of elevators,” Karkat says.

 

“There’s one,” Tavros says, looking past the waiting area.  Beyond it is a multi-floor atrium with a marble floor, an alcove to the left holding a pair of elevators.  Next to the doors is a directory.

 

“What, exactly are we looking for?” Tavros asks.

 

“Well, probably nothing upstairs,” Dave says.  “Yeah, it’s just executive offices up there.”

 

“Maybe by the theater?” Karkat suggests.

 

“No, I think we’re looking for something like live testing, or manufacturing.  But I don't see anything like that.”

 

“Well, there’s a lab section, on this floor,” Tavros says.

 

“Okay, we’ll start there.”

 

The labs are at the back of the atrium, and contain a number of surgery wards and testing rooms.  Large storage closets hold dozens of charred mannikens, and a few offices contain scientist notes on various plasmid tests. 

 

“That was a huge waste of time,” Dave says when they reconvene in the atrium.  “Any other ideas?”

 

“We need a floor plan,” Karkat says.  “Something that can tell us where they keep rooms that might be used as a holding area.”

 

“There’s, an archive department, on the third floor,” Tavros calls from the elevators.

 

“Wait, where’s the CEO’s office?” Dave asks.

 

“Uh, tenth floor,” Tavros answers.

 

“Alright.  I’m going to search the CEO’s office.  You two take the archives,” Dave says, calling the elevators.  He gets in the first one.

 

“Wait,” Karkat says.  Dave pauses, about to hit the button, and raises an eyebrow at him.  “Be careful.”

 

Dave nods, and ascends.  Tavros is grinning giddily when Karkat calls the next elevator.

 

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Karkat snarls.

 

“Oh, nothing,” Tavros says, covering his mouth.

 

Dave reaches the tenth floor and finds the CEO’s office easily—the room is enormous and practically takes up the entire floor.  Stuffed game hangs from the walls above a number of embedded filing cabinets.  The desk is covered in green felt, and the chair is green leather.

 

“Pretty swank place,” Dave whistles, running his hand over a leather sofa in one of a few sitting areas toward the front.  He opens some of the filing cabinets, which are largely empty of anything substantive.  “Seems like someone cleared out in a hurry.”

 

He walks over to a nearby trashcan and sees it’s full of ashes.  He sifts through them and pulls out a page that’s crisped up around the edges.

 

“ADAM testing facilities,” Dave reads.  “Shit, it’s part of a larger document.  Maximum housing capacity of…one hundred fifty?  Damn.  Where is this?”

 

He sifts through the trashcan some more, but the rest of the document was burned long ago.  He goes back through the rest of the filing cabinets, but an hour later has only come up with a few audio diaries (the previous owner of Cherub Futuristics mostly roared at the recorders in short, stilted sentences, but otherwise sounded like a petulant child, in Dave’s opinion).  The only thing left to search is the desk.

 

“Which might be booby-trapped,” Dave sighs.  “Sorry, Karkat, but I gotta put myself in the line of fire again.”

 

Without opening any drawers, Dave searches the enormous mahogany block for buttons or secret switches.  He is rewarded with a secret button on the floor by the leather chair, which he presses to reveal a secret closet concealed behind a filing cabinet.  He goes through the desk drawers before checking it, finding contracts, office supplies, a worrying number of machine gun clips, and several bags of suckers.

 

The secret closet holds an assortment of plasmids, more guns, and stacks of photographs.  The photos are of what appear to be plasmid test subjects, many contorted in pain in addition to a mind-boggling array of other afflictions.  Some are on fire, some covered in bees, one appears to be in full bloom, and all of them boast cysts, boils, lesions or other physical deformities.  Dave puts the photos aside and examines the plasmids.

 

Several contain warning labels, ‘DO NOT USE: UNSTABLE.’  Dave picks up one and reads its tag.

 

“Lot 413: Teleport.  Clinical Trials Only.”

 

The lot is half-empty.  Nearby is a hypo, dried plasmid crusting the vial.  Dave purses his lips, picking up the hypo.  Should he?  He kind of wants to.  Well, he still hasn't explained to Karkat about the electrobolt.

 

“If you’re gonna sin, sin hard,” Dave recites, thinking of the old birds back in Texas.  He draws a hypo’s worth of Teleport, rolls up his sleeve, and sticks the needle in his arm.  As expected this time, his arm feels like it’s being torn apart and reassembled rapidly, a sensation that spreads to the rest of him.  His vision tilts horribly, and for a brief minute his view switches rapidly from the office to the atrium to the labs to the middle of the ocean, and finally back to the office.  He falls to his knees from vertigo and vomits.

 

“Gross,” he says, wiping his mouth.  “Okay, what the fuck did I just do to myself?”

 

He looks around the room, and thinks hard about being on the other side of the desk.  Blood rushes in his ears, his vision blacks out, only to snap back a second later.  He’s standing on the other side of the desk.  He claps a hand to the side of his head, checking for blood, but there’s nothing.

 

“Okay then,” Dave says.  “Okay.  This is cool.  This is pretty fucking rad.”

 

He teleports around the room a few more times, appreciating that his clothes and weapons appear to come with him.  The exhilarating rush is back, but twice as strong as the electrobolt.  Dave is tempted to let out a whoop, but refrains—that’s not his style.

 

He teleports up to one of the stuffed heads and jumps, drawing his sword.  On the other side of the room he cuts off the head of a bear mounted over the secret closet, landing by the office door twenty feet away.  He feels dizzy, and sits down for a moment until things stop spinning.

 

“Shit,” he says.  “Fuck.  Fucking awesome.  God, I am so fucked.”

 

In the hall outside the office is an EVE dispenser.  Dave takes a couple of hypos and calls the elevator.

 

Karkat and Tavros are scouring the archives.  Karkat has found a few floorplans of individual areas in the building, probably for refurbishment purposes, but has yet to find a comprehensive blueprint.  Tavros is searching as well, but seems intent on irritating Karkat’s refined sensibilities with inane chatter.

 

“And then, when you were at the elevator, just a while ago, telling him, you know, to be careful, and he actually, acknowledged it rather than ignore you,” Tavros is saying.

 

“Oh my be-tentacled, thousand-eyed, madness-inducing god,” Karkat says.  “Will you just fucking shut up already?  What is going on between me and Dave is not what you think, not that it’s any of your goddamn business anyway!”

 

“But, I mean, it’s really, obvious,” Tavros says, frowning.  “The two of you, are just, the palest for each other.”

 

“No, absolutely not,” Karkat says heatedly.  “Dave wouldn’t know a pale feeling if it lovingly caressed his face, and I _certainly_ do not even consider that douchefuck in that way in the slightest.  We have a strictly businesslike arrangement between us, and that’s _it_.”

 

“It sounds, uh, like you’re just saying a bunch of hurtful things, to try and convince yourself, that you’re right, and, that I’m wrong, because you think you’ll be, better off, that is, without confronting these feelings, that you find intolerable for reasons that are dumb.”

 

Karkat turns to Tavros, trying very hard not to scream.  He doesn’t succeed particularly well.

 

“What the absolutely pissing fuck?  How hard were you riding Kankri’s bulge to just spew that out?  Did you eat a fucking psychoanalytical textbook?”

 

Tavros blushes hard.

 

“Uh, the implication, that there was anything sexual, between, Kankri and myself, is inappropriate, and false.”

 

“Oh, fantastic,” Karkat throws his hands up.  “What you’re doing?  It’s called projecting.  My dear cousin would be fucking ashamed of you.”

 

“But, I’m not suggesting, that you and Dave might have,” Tavros’s voice drops a little.  “Red feelings.  That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

 

“Alright, this conversation is over.  I’m not comfortable talking about this with you, and I’m especially uncomfortable with the thought of anyone anywhere near that prudish fucksnip’s bulge.  See what you’ve done, Tavros?  I am now deeply unsettled.”

 

“But, you were the one, who brought up,,,”

 

“What did I say!?  We’re done!”

 

They search through the stacks in silence for a few minutes.

 

“I still think, you’re in denial,” Tavros says.

 

“Shut up!  Shut up right now!” Karkat says, throwing a binder at Tavros’s head.  It ricochets off his horns, fluttering open and spilling its contents on the floor.  Tavros glances down.

 

“Oh, uh, look,” Tavros says, bending down.  “A blueprint.”

 

“What?  Give me that.”

 

Karkat snatches a folded piece of paper from Tavros, which in fact turns out to be the blueprint to the building.

 

“Jesus H, this place is huge,” Karkat says.

 

“Look, this is, where we are,” Tavros points to the archive section, which used to be human/troll resources.

 

“And here are the labs we looked through,” Karkat says.  “And here’s a storage area.  And the security booth.”

 

“Wait, what’s this?” Tavros points to a second area, separate from the rest of the building.

 

“‘Secure Testing and Development,’” Karkat reads.  “‘See Plan 13B’.  Shit, check the rest of that binder.”

 

They fall on their knees to sift through the rest of the paper cascade left from the binder.  Karkat finds it, a smaller blueprint of wards, storerooms, holding cells, and conditioning chambers.

 

“I think we’ve found it,” Karkat says.  Tavros looks over his shoulder.  “Look, this is where they’d keep prisoners, and then they’d just test ADAM on them here.  Fuck, this is going to be tough to find.”

 

“I mean, it looks like, it’s just a hundred yards outside this airlock,” Tavros says, pointing to a spot in the basement of Cherub Futuristics.  “So, not really that difficult.”

 

The door to the archive room opens, causing the trolls to freeze.  There are footsteps, followed by a suspiciously wet snapping sound.  More footsteps, from a different direction.  Karkat draws his gun.  There’s another snap, and more footsteps, and then Dave is standing at the end of the stacks.

 

“Howdy,” he says.

 

“Dave, what the fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” Karkat says, lowering the gun.

 

“My bad,” he replies.  “Did you find anything?  Because that office had jack shit.  Someone cleared it out already.”

 

“We, uh, found the blueprint, and maybe also Persephone,” Tavros says, holding out the blueprints for Dave to examine.  He looks them over for a minute.

 

“This isn’t Persephone,” Dave says.

 

“How do you know?” Karkat asks.

  
“Remember how Dirk and I used to keep a list of disappeared people?  There aren’t enough holding cells here to accommodate them all.  And I also found the remains of a page from a file called ADAM Testing Facilities, that said the place could hold up to one hundred and fifty people.  This place looks like it could hold maybe a dozen.”

 

“Wait,” Tavros says from the ground.  “This is, a geological survey of the area.  We’re near, the trench, just where we are.  What if Persephone, is maybe down there?”

 

“‘It lies below,’” Dave says.

 

“What?  No.  No no no, we’re not walking down into an undersea trench on a fucking _hunch_ , Dave,” Karkat protests.  “That’s a one-way ticket to suffocation and death.  Why do I always have to be the one to point this out?”

 

“See, this is why we keep you around, Karkat,” Dave says, patting him on the cheek smirking.  “He’s right, Tavros, we need something more substantial than that.”

 

“Well, maybe if we keep looking, we might, find something.”

 

As they search, the building suddenly shudders around them.  They stop, ears pricked for sounds.  Another shudder.

 

“What the fuck is that?” Karkat asks, eyes wide.

 

“Atrium,” Dave says.  They run out of the archives into the atrium.  There’s a rumbling from above, and rivulets of water drip from the ceiling.

 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Karkat swears.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.  No, fuck no.”

 

“Uh, we should, probably stop standing here, and run,” Tavros says, taking off toward the stairs.

 

“Where are you going!?” Karkat screeches.

 

“There’s, the airlock, in the basement,” Tavros calls back.  “It might, have diving suits?”

 

“Come on!” Dave says, pulling Karkat by the arm after Tavros.  The rumbling is louder, and when they get to the ground floor water is pouring out of the elevator shafts.  They slosh through the water to the emergency stairs, which lead to the basement.  Tavros gets there first, throwing the door open only to be thrown back by a deluge of seawater.

 

“Fuck!” Karkat shouts, reaching down and dragging the troll up.  “This isn’t going to fucking work!”

 

“Just force your way through!” Dave shouts, grabbing onto the door and climbing into the stairs.  He grabs onto the railing, and holds his hand out to the trolls, who pull their way through the fast current to get to him.  He pushes them both down the stairs, sending them tumbling into the basement.

 

The lights flicker on and off, sparking where the water shorts wires.  The current washes the three of them down a long hallway with many doors.  They hit the end, and manage to get to their feet.  A door a ways up the hall has a sign over it, ‘Diving Facility’.

 

“There!”

 

The current down here is less, but the water is deeper as they force their way forward.  The diving facility is connected to the airlock, and is flooding fast.  Dave grabs a suit from the nearest locker.

 

“Get in the airlock!  We can change there.”

 

They each grab a suit and helmet, and get into the airlock, letting in a wave of water.  They slam the door shut behind them.  The lights in the airlock flicker.

 

“Well,” Karkat says.  “This is a great time to die.”

 

“We’re not going to die,” Dave says.  “Just get into your suit before the lights go out.”

 

“We, can go to secure testing,” Tavros says.  “Unless it, too, is flooded, there will be, oxygen.”

 

They change quickly, but before they can affix their helmets the lights flicker once and die.  Karkat swears profusely, but clamps his helmet over his head regardless.  He affixes it as best he can, tapping on Dave’s shoulder to check for him.  The human runs his hands over the screws keeping it in place, tightening some of them.  Karkat can’t see if he gives him the thumbs up or not.  He reaches out to Tavros to check his helmet, but there’s a klaxon and the airlock fills with water.

 

Dave grabs Karkat’s hand, who grabs Tavros, and the three make their way out into the murky ocean.  The lights around the airlock are still on, shining weakly against the silts drifting around at this depth.  However, they spy a concrete path through the gloom, and use it to guide their way forward.  After about twenty feet, the lights of Cherub Futuristics go out for the final time.  Karkat glances back at the shadow of the building, barely visible against the ambiance of the city.  Dave pulls him forward.

 

Tavros becomes heavier as they go along, but after a bit Karkat can see the light of an oxygen station.  Nearby is the airlock entrance into secure testing.  Beyond, inky blackness.  Karkat shudders thinking that he might die at the bottom of the sea, crushed, anonymous.  No one would be able to find his remains.  No one would even be looking.

 

The airlock opens, and drains, and Karkat lets go of Dave and Tavros to remove his helmet.  There’s a heavy crash as Tavros falls to the ground.  Karkat takes his helmet off and sees that Tavros wasn’t wearing one to begin with.

 

“Holy fuck!”

 

Karkat drops to his knees, panicking.  What should he do?  CPR?  He doesn’t know how to do CPR.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Dave swears.  “Karkat, move.”

 

Dave shoves Karkat to the side, and performs CRP on Tavros’s soaked, inert form.  Karkat starts babbling.

 

“Jesus, what was he thinking?  Why didn’t he have a helmet on?  I was practically dragging him along, I didn’t think anything of it, he was just getting heavier.  What the fuck.  What the fuck!  Dave, why wasn’t he wearing a helmet?”

 

Dave ignores him, but after five minutes Tavros hasn’t responded, so Dave gives up.  Water pools around the dead troll’s mouth.

 

“It was his horns,” Dave says.  “Most of the helmets would’ve been too small for him.  He didn’t have time to find one that fit.”

 

“Jesus fuck,” Karkat says.  He’s crying.  Dave closes Tavros’s eyes, and stands up.

 

“Hey,” he says.  “There wasn’t anything you could do.”

 

“But…but why did the airlock even open?  I was about to check him, and then suddenly it doesn’t fucking matter because hey look ocean.”

 

“Tavros must’ve opened it,” Dave says.  “I was checking your helmet.”

 

“But…But that’s fucking suicide!”

 

“Maybe he thought we’d get to secure testing sooner than we did,” Dave says.

 

“Gog,” Karkat says, wiping his face.  “Just, fuck, I didn’t like him that much, but he was a fucking decent troll.”

 

“Shh,” Dave says, pulling in Karkat for a hug.  “We tried to save him.  If we’d opened that airlock again either way, it would’ve filled up with water before we could close it again.  There wasn’t anything we could do.”

 

They stay there like that until Karkat regains his composure, and then check secure testing for any clues.  The place smells of death—corpses rot in the holding cells, the recently dead and the long dead held together until the ocean reclaims the facility.  Karkat stares dully at a troll, green-blooded, covered in grafts and lesions, lying with his jaw dislocated against the bars of his cell.  His skin is bruised, and mottled. 

 

Dave searches the mental conditioning rooms.  Karkat finds him there listening to an audio diary.

 

_Lost another subject today.  At the rate we’re burning through them, I doubt even someone like Diamonds Droog will be able to procure us more.  I don’t know how he does it, and quite frankly I’d like to keep it that way.  Doesn’t do to get on the wrong side of the Midnight Crew.  Still, I’m requisitioning another batch, and I hope they get here as promptly as the last one.  Caliborn’s been making a lot of waves lately, and that’s got me worried.  But hey, I’m just the lab technician.  It’s not my problem who’s king of the hill._

Dave pinches his nose and puts the audio diary down.

 

“I was right,” he says.  “This isn’t it.  This isn’t even close to it.  We came all this way for nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I know where this story's going now. We'll get there, don't worry. New Year's is just around the corner.
> 
> Credit goes to brodad of The Irony Of Bubblemates fame for planting the idea of Dave and Dirk being raised by 'a pair of old birds'.


	11. The Ocean On His Shoulders

“Lot number seventy-one: an electric lamp, used, constructed of brass and aluminum components in the modern style.  Bidding starts at $175.”

 

The plasmid theater in Cherub Futuristics is packed with the business elite of the city—finely dressed humans smoking cigars, mingling with a smattering of trolls and chessmen.  Down below, the auctioneer takes bids before a projector screen displaying pictures of the lots as they are called up.  Much of the equipment is in storage, although a few units cannot be easily detached from their positions.  The auction has been carrying on for a few days—industrial apparati and ADAM stores largely having been sold off, now the auction moves on to the many luxury goods garnishing the place.  John sits at the front with his retinue, the Dignitary and a few bodyguards.  He is exhausted from the organization of this event, and glad to know that it will soon be over.

 

“Sold to Madame Questant for $515, thank you very much, Madame.  Lot number seventy-two: a golden ring, origin and make unknown, believed to be part of a set of two that was found in the vault.  Bidding starts at $500.”

 

John holds up his number.

 

“$500 from Mr. Egbert, thank you sir.  Do I hear $514?  Yes, $514 from the gentlemen in the seventh row.  Do I hear $528?”

 

John bids again.  He has thus far not partaken of the luxury items—they’re rather frivolous, for the most part, like toys for an over-demanding child, but he likes the ring.

 

“$528 from Mr. Egbert, thank you sir.  Do I hear—?”

 

John continues bidding on the ring, vaguely determined that he might give it to Jane as part of an apology to her.  He has missed her company these past couple of weeks, and promises himself he will check up on her when this is over.

 

“$612?  Do I hear $612?  Going once.  Going twice.  $612 from Madamoiselle Serket, thank you, Ms.”

 

John turns sharply to look where the auctioneer is looking, and sees a troll with distinctive horns at the back holding up a number.  The stagelights do not permit him to see much more detail.

 

“Going once.  Going twice.  Sold, lot number seventy-two, to Ms. Aranea Serket.  Thank you very much.”

 

A hired troll in a blue suit comes up to the stage to collect the receipt from one of the proprietors.  John stands up, apologizing to the Dignitary, and looks toward the exit.  Aranea Serket walks demurely toward the door to the theater lobby.  John strides swiftly after her, but when he reaches the lobby, she is already disappearing into an ascending elevator.  He calls the next one, waiting impatiently.

 

When it arrives, he quickly gets inside, hitting the button for the top floor, where the submarine moorings are housed.  He sees his bodyguards hurrying after him, but doesn’t wait.  The elevator rises slowly, passing office suites and cubicle floors.  John composes himself during the ride, intent on maintaining a stern professional attitude.

 

The elevator chimes, and he walks into the VIP lounge where Cherub Futuristics executives meet recently disembarked clients.  John’s private submarine is moored in the docking area beyond the lounge, which hosts a bar, billiards, and an observation deck.  At a table by the observation deck, John spies his quarry sitting with her back to him, seemingly admiring the city vista.

 

He approaches her.

 

“Excuse me,” he says, clearing his throat.  Aranea looks up at him, smiling at him from behind horn-rimmed glasses.  She wears a fashionable cerulean dress with while embroidered spider webbing around the neckline.  John notes that she is shuffling a deck of cards.

 

“Good evening, John,” she says pleasantly.  “Fancy a game of poker?”

 

“Sure.  I love card games.”

 

“I know.”

 

John raises an eyebrow and takes the seat opposite her.  She deals a hand and sits back in her seat, watching him.

 

“You forget that I am Vriska Serket’s relation by blood, and one of her trustees and closest confidantes,” Aranea goes on, discarding two cards.  “I know all about you.”

 

“I see,” John says, drawing three cards.  Behind them the elevator chimes, and Aranea’s retinue steps out.  “Well, I wanted to ask you a question before you went and disappeared off into some web of hers.”

 

Aranea lays down her hand—flush.  John clicks his tongue in disgust.

 

“I’m always happy to answer any question in as much detail as the moment allows,” Aranea says, gesturing that John should ask while dealing new hands.

 

“Well, you know I’ve been building a case against Vriska for a while now,” John says.  “In fact, I’m pretty sure we’re about ready to move in.”

 

“I am aware of it,” Aranea says.  “We’ve been watching you far longer than you’ve been watching us.”

 

“Which is why I was wondering: why did you bid on that ring tonight?  Why are you even here?  I could have you arrested for being associated with Vriska, and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

 

Aranea’s hired troll approaches holding a box, from which she removes the golden ring.  She admires its luster against her gloved hands for a moment.

 

“Well, truth be told I’ve always been fond of stories.  You know, it’s an ancient and venerated art amongst the Serkets, the collection of histories and tales.  When I was at university, I focused in history, and came across an interesting passage by a British lord who had elected to study the noble genealogies of Alternia when he wasn’t off managing some colonial enterprise.  This British lord’s name was frightfully forgettable, but he had this to say:

 

_“It is a rare treat to get such a candid and intimate view into the machinations of the Serkets, for never has there been so ruthless and cunning a family of spies, vagrants and stenographers.  The ferocity with which the grand dame gathers and protects secrets knows no equal.”_

 

Aranea reshuffles the deck and deals a new hand.  John frowns slightly at the recounting.

 

“While much could be said regarding the relationship my forebear and this lord had, I’ll spare you the details and simply add that his fixation with the Serkets, and the grand dame in particular, led him to the conclusion that our customs and habits primarily served the aim of acquiring and keeping political power.  There had always been a Serket serving as either court scribe or spymaster to her imperial condescension, which secured our clan from culling and granted us certain rights and privileges that we might otherwise have had to earn like others of our caste.  But saying that our interest in information is for power’s sake is inaccurate.  Really, if you want to know my opinion,” Aranea says, drawing two cards.  “I think we just can’t help ourselves.”

 

John looks at his hand—full house.  He grins a little, while Aranea waits for him to take a card.

 

“Pass,” he says.  “This is pretty interesting, but you haven’t really answered my question.”

 

He lays out his cards, holding back his smugness without much success.  Aranea smiles at his cards, taking her time to lay her hand out.

 

“I would’ve thought I’d made myself clear already,” she says laying down a two of clubs.  “I’m here to tell you a story.  And so that we’re perfectly clear, I’m doing this under my own impetus, and not on Vriska’s orders.  Now then.”

 

She taps the two of clubs with a gloved hand.

 

“The story I’m about to tell you doesn’t go back very far, which has the advantage of allowing us to breeze over some of the establishing details.  Picture this: a young industrialist, bright-eyed and naïve, setting out to make his fortune.  It doesn’t matter where he goes—everyone seems willing to follow him, and so he rapidly becomes a wildly successful businessman.  He attracts national attention, and soon learns what every leader learns eventually: no matter how nobly or fairly one starts out, there will always be those who will resent and fear him.  He becomes tangled up in a vicious web of politics, and is dismayed to learn that everyone he meets either wants to put a hand in his pocket or a knife in his back.

 

“‘Why?’ he asks himself.  ‘What did I do to deserve their hatred?’  His cries go unsanswered, and soon an event occurs, one that shatters whatever faith he has in humanity, and drives him to seek out the farthest corner of the planet to hide and wait.  What further place could there be, but the bottom of the sea?  What safer fortress to hide from the evils of surface, than Rapture?”

 

Aranea pauses to put down the ace of hearts.

 

“But the ocean is a lonely place, and soon our industrialist grows lonely in his sunken ivory towers.  There are those on the surface whom he misses: lovers, family, friends.  Moving stealthily, so as not to attract unwanted attention, he gathers them together with him in his undersea paradise.  Was it love, curiosity, or the promise of power that brought the spider down to Rapture?  Our industrialist thought love, for he adored the creature for all of her wit and humor, all the delightful bands across her back.  Whispering sweetly to her, he plucked her from her web and brought her with him, forever to spin new silk in the gilt halls of the city.  Inevitably, the spider bit his hand, and scuttled away, ashamed and resentful—it had not been her intention to remain idly by his side, as he seemed to want.”

 

“I never wanted that for Vriska!” John protests.  Aranea hushes him with a raised finger.

 

“And so our industrialist is once again alone,” she says, turning over the ace of spades.  “But is he really?  For his secret invitations were not as secret as he had supposed, and many of his friends clamour for their friends and family to join them.  Investigations and intrigue surround his doings on the surface, and that’s when the devil rears its head—he is a fellow without conscience or creed except the pursuit of power for power’s sake, feared on the surface for his madness and strength.  Some called him a thug, others called him the angel of death.  He preferred the name Caliborn.”

 

“Oh, so Caliborn gets his name in the story, but Vriska or I don’t?” John huffs.

 

“The genius of Caliborn lies in his single-minded determination to be at the center of every plot.  Now, Rapture, as you know, has only one law—a well-meaning statute that forbids all contact with the surface and set up the ideal conditions for a black market.  We could discuss the legal ramifications of monolegal systems later on, if you would like!  I’ve picked up a few things from Ms. Pyrope over the years.”

 

“No thanks, I think I’m alright not discussing that,” John says.  Aranea pouts.

 

“Caliborn’s entry into Rapture was carefully coordinated by two separate parties working toward seemingly opposing goals, and the exact details that surround the event remain maddeningly shrouded in mystery.  All I can say for certain is that he was delivered to the city inside a sarswapagus, an artifact of ancient origins and great cultural import to the cherub species.  His anonymous entry into the city secured, he wasted no time setting up the conditions for his inevitable ascension.”

 

Aranea flips the ace of clubs.

 

“Our industrialist remains oblivious to these transpirings for some time, but does not fail to notice the discontent brewing in Rapture.  Recognizing that he is out of his depth, so to speak, he calls an expert: a psychiatrist, widely lauded as the best in the field.  He is young, possessing a rare blood type that would have gotten him culled by troll society had it ever been found out.  He and his kin lived a life of nomads, wandering across the face of the Earth seeking out a society that would accept them for what they were, and always he looked, listened, and noted the rampant injustice of the world.  When he came of age, he published his findings, and was met with persecution.  He fled to America, and was met with indifference.  He spoke out against oppression, and the war, and was rewarded with hatred.  But those for whom he spoke grew to love him, and so he was never without support.

 

“Our psychiatrist, accompanied by just one other of his clan, arrives at the gates of Rapture a pauper, but society receives him with open arms.  Finally, the papers cry, someone will take care of our anxieties, our despair.  The industrialist looks on, without understanding.  Had not the point of Rapture been to hide from such things?  What has he gotten for his troubles but revulsion and censure?  As a figurehead, our industrialist represents the power behind Rapture, and our psychiatrist wastes no time criticizing him.  His words, his works, find a ready audience.”

 

Aranea turns over the ace of diamonds.

 

“And so it is that the whole world turns on the industrialist.  The surface repelled him, and now Rapture, too, seems to be turning its back on him.  But there is one who does not: she is an unsung hero who works tirelessly to uncover the mysteries that plague the city, and the only blood relative our industrialist has left.”

 

“Jane,” John says.  Aranea nods.

 

“A private inspector with a household name, she follows our industrialist to Rapture because she is not blinded by idealism, and knows every facet of the evil that dwells in the hearts of the living.  As our industrialist sets out to construct utopia, she walks its streets.  She doesn’t care about fame, or wealth: only truth, and the truth is that Rapture is well on the path to destruction.  Behind every shadow there seems to be the web of a spider, but behind every web something more sinister lurks, pulling the strings.  Her warnings go unheeded, however—but why?  Our industrialist trusts her implicitly, but why is it that despite her cautions the situation cannot help but careen recklessly out of control?”

 

John’s frown deepens.  He clenches his fists a little tighter, thinking of Jane.  Aranea seems to have finished speaking for the moment, content to watch him.  From behind them, the sounds of the elevator rising drift through the lounge.

 

“What you’re saying,” John says.  “Is that you set up this meeting so that you could tell me I’m being managed.”

 

Aranea smiles.

 

“I came because I wanted to tell you a story,” she says, standing.  “There’s one part left, if you still care to hear it.  You’ve probably heard it already, but I think there’s always some benefit to adding a new perspective.”

 

John nods, indicating she should continue.  Aranea smooths her dress, but does not sit.

 

“Our inspector uncovers evidence of a fantastic plot to overthrow the city, news which is delivered directly to our industrialist.  Now he must make a decision: how shall he deal with this threat?  He sends out his agents to collect more information, and puts in place measures that are regrettable inasmuch as they are necessary, which draws fire from our psychiatrist, and forces our spider deeper into hiding.  Caliborn, however, rises unexpectedly to meet the challenge, and a short, violent war breaks out that ends with Caliborn’s apparent death.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘apparent’?  Caliborn is dead.”

 

“ _Habeas corpus_ , John,” Aranea chides.  “Was a body recovered?  Witnesses report a shootout in his office, and then…what?  Not that it matters for what happens next: in the fervor of the investigations, the psychiatrist is quietly detained, and disappears.  A few riots occur, but are quickly dispersed thanks to powerful plasmids recovered from Caliborn’s stores.  Paranoia grips the city, and splicing becomes an irrepressible habit.  Without counsel, without heroes, the city produces one—a White Knight rises from the ranks of the long-neglected chessmen, championing the cause of justice for the poor.  His methods and identity remain a mystery, but the symbolism behind him is indisputable: he is a symptom of chaos, a plea for order, and a promise that one way or another blood will be shed.  In many ways, it doesn’t matter who he is, or if he is even real: the citizens of Rapture cling to his name like a lifeline in a storm.  His strength is his anonymity—anyone could claim to be the White Knight, and they would receive support.  The spider fears him, because a revolution would tear her webs to shreds.  The inspector loathes him, because try as she might he is one mystery that refuses to be solved.  As for our psychiatrist, who can say?  I suppose he would agree in principle, but advocate less violent means of revolt.”

 

Aranea turns to go, her entourage in tow.  John glances at the cards—her four of a kind beats his full house—and quickly stands to follow her.  The elevator’s noises grow louder, the car approaching the lounge.

 

“Hang on,” John says, catching up with Aranea.  “That’s not a very satisfying conclusion.”

 

“Is there ever a satisfying conclusion in Rapture?” she says.  “You’ve been here almost fifteen years, you ought to know better.”

 

“But I still don’t understand.  Who is the White Knight?” John presses.

 

“I don’t know,” Aranea shrugs.  She brushes John off and exits the lounge into the rooftop sub bay.  The elevator chimes, and the Dignitary steps out, flanked by bodyguards.  John turns to them quickly.

 

“I was just talking to Aranea Serket.  Go and detain her before she gets away.”

 

The bodyguards move past John and into the sub bay while the Dignitary lights a cigarette.  Everytime they have to interact, John feels like he’s being sized up.  The Dignitary is not a fellow who wastes time or words.

 

“Looks like she escaped,” he says impassively as the bodyguards return empty-handed.

 

“Well, let’s get after her, then!” John says.  “She’s a Serket!  We can’t just let her go like that.  She also strongly hinted that she knew things about the White Knight.”

 

“Let’s say we put a tail on her and see if she gives us the slip,” the Dignitary says.  “No need to get our panties in a twist.”

 

John sighs frustratedly, and paces over to the window.  Outside he can see the lights of a submarine sailing away toward the city.  Just then, a loud boom echoes from the sub bay.  The floor shakes, and John can hear the sound of water.

 

“What was that?” he demands, running over to the door into the sub bay.  He throws it open and a wall of water rushes out.  John is swept aside, forced against the window by the water, which rapidly fills the room nearly to the ceiling.  When the force lessens, John swims over to where he can see the Dignitary floating.  He is bruised from a piece of furniture striking him, but otherwise unhurt.

 

“We have to get to the sub,” he says calmly.  “Faster would be better.”

 

They fight against the current until they are near the door into the sub bay, both taking deep breathes before they dive.  Through the stinging salt water, John can see that the glass ceiling has been destroyed by something, probably a bomb.  He and the Dignitary are nearly swept back into the lounge by the current, and make their way up to the Egbert Industries sub by gripping the pillars spread throughout the room.  They enter the sub’s airlock, which drains allowing them to breathe.  John grips his knees, inhaling heavily.  The Dignitary goes to the bridge and disengages the sub’s locks.

 

“Wait, what about the other guests?  And our bodyguards?” John asks between gasps.

 

“Probably gonna drown,” the Dignitary says.  “The whole place is toast, just like the Peixes housing project.  My guess it was a hit on some VIP at the theater, maybe even you.  You say you were talking to a Serket?  Then she’s probably the one behind it, seeing as she left just before the fireworks started.”

 

“It does seem that way,” John says.  “But I don’t think so.”

 

“With all due respect, boss, but you should probably leave the detective work to the pros,” the Dignitary says.  “This has the stench of Serkets all about it.”

 

“I still don’t think she did it,” John says.  “If anyone, it was probably the White Knight.”

 

The Dignitary simply shrugs, and pilots the sub away from Cherub Futuristics. 

 

 

***

 

 

Karkat sits at the feet of Tavros’s corpse, arms clasped around his knees.  In his head he keeps going back to his last conversation with the troll.  Karkat had seen plenty of death in the Drop, but he had been an exile then.  Nobody cared about the mutant-blooded troll with the flatcap that skulked around the Fish Bowl for spare change.  Dead bodies were as good as tin sheets as far as Karkat concerned—things that littered the place, but weren’t worth thinking about.  They just were.  Tavros was the first troll since Kankri that Karkat felt like he could talk to, even if he had only known him for a few hours.  Tavros genuinely cared.  If he had made it out of this alive, they might’ve become friends.

 

Karkat sighs.  Dave enters the airlock, dressed in his diving suit.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hey, asshole,” Karkat says.

 

“Ready to go?”

 

“Where?  We don’t have any fucking clue where Persephone might be.  Egbert Industries is suicide, and everywhere else is down town.”

 

“Well,” Dave says, crouching down next to Karkat.  “I came up with a plan.”

 

“Jegus fucking H, somebody slap me and wake me up from this dream where Dave actually has a plan.”

 

“You’re not going to like it, though.”

 

Karkat side-eyes Dave, lips drawn in a tight scowl.  Dave raises an eyebrow at him, but presses on.  He makes an unconscious move to adjust cheaters that aren’t there.

 

“We need to get arrested.”

 

Karkat waits for the punchline.  It doesn’t come.

 

“Wow, I didn’t think it was possible, but you came up with something even stupider than storming Egbert Industries.”

 

“Now, hear me out,” Dave begins.

 

“Why the fuck would that help us?  Okay, sure, maybe if we get arrested for the right thing we could get thrown into Persephone, but then what?  We’d be inmates!  There would be literally no possible way we could break out, if this place is as high-security as you say.”

 

“Okay, you would under normal circumstances be raising a perfectly valid point,” Dave says, and Karkat can read the uncertainty written across his face.

 

“Something tells me that I’m going to like the next words out of your mouth even less than your half-assed plan, if that’s at all possible given the ludicrous depths you’ve caused my disgust with language to sink.”

 

“Karkat, I am being serious with you right now,” Dave says.  “I didn’t really know how to say this earlier.”

 

Karkat’s brow knits with angry confusion.

 

“What?  Just fucking spit it out already.”

 

“Before I tell you, I just want to say that the reason I didn’t mention anything earlier is because I didn’t want you to react badly.  But we don’t really have a choice, so I’m just going to come out and say it.”

 

Dave takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and vanishes in a puff of red before Karkat’s eyes.  There’s a wet snapping sound, and the red cloud coalesces into Dave on Karkat’s other side.  Karkat is completely speechless.

 

“Wha--,” he tries.

 

“I spliced,” Dave says.  “Some weird concoction called Teleport I found in the CEO’s office.”

 

“Ho--,” Karkat tries again.

 

“Okay, full disclosure: I had already spliced, back when you drank yourself stupid before we came here, there was this weird clown outside peddling plasmids, and I thought, ‘why the fuck not, could use some extra fire power,’ and one thing led to another, and I also have a few charges of electrobolt.”

 

“Why--,” Karkat tries one last time.

 

“To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have been tempted if it weren’t for that massive ADAM injection I got back at the robotics shop, but that was kind of an emergency situation, and I want you to know that I’m glad you saved my life and I don’t blame you for any of this, and you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

 

Karkat flails for a bit during Dave’s rant.  Dave tries to pat him on the shoulder, but Karkat slaps his hand away.  His confusion is rapidly transforming into fury.

 

“Ignoring for a second that earlier discussion we had on telling eachother things that are FUCKING relevant,” Karkat hisses.  “WHAT.  THE ACTUAL.  FUCK?”

 

“Dude, I just explained--,”

 

“No, Dave, what you did was not fucking ‘just explain’!  You goddamn know how I feel about splicing, it’s fucking dangerous and stupid, and WHY THE FUCK DID YOU GO AHEAD AND DO IT ANYWAY?”

 

Karkat’s yells echo around the airlock, causing Dave to hold his ears as the troll works himself up.  Dave attempts to head him off.

 

“I already said, we needed more firepower.  A couple of pistols and a bitchin’ sword ain’t going to be enough to take on Persephone…”

 

“Dave,” Karkat says, deadly quiet.  “Do you remember much about our first fight with a splicer?  You were dying, and I was terrified for my life, and all because someone, some time ago, thought that they needed more firepower, that they needed more FUCKING juice, and WENT AND SPLICED UP AND BECAME A JIBBERING BLOODTHIRSTY MANIAC.  It doesn’t just stop with, ‘Oh, I’ll do this once or twice, but then I’m good, I swear!’  Nobody in the Drop who did ADAM did it just once—they fucking went into withdrawal if they didn’t get three or four hits a day, and let me tell you something that is NOT a pretty thing to watch!”

 

Karkat is clutching Dave’s diving suit, eyes blazing.  Dave is trying is best not to show how terrified he is of the troll, but isn’t doing a good job.  Karkat is so angry that he is snarling his words.

 

“Where the fuck do you get off threatening to put me through that again?  Who fucking told you that you were _allowed_ to consider it?  After everything I’ve done to keep your ass out of trouble, you go and do the DUMBEST, MOST THINKPAN-SHRIVELINGLY MORONIC thing you could possibly do!  Gogdammit, Dave, I can’t even think about what would happen if I lost you!”

 

Dave’s pupils are dilated.  Karkat is sniffling again, eyes closed as he tries to hold down the sudden hysteria gripping him.

 

“Dude…” Dave says, fear and awe in his voice.

 

“I can’t right now,” Karkat says.  “This is too much.  I can’t look at you, or I might fucking scream again.  Just.  Don’t follow me.  I can’t even think right now.”

 

Karkat stands up and walks quickly out the airlock, leaving Dave sitting there stunned.  He goes back to the holding cells and sits with his back against the wall, shivering.  It’s freezing here, and seawater drips from the ceiling in places.  A part of his brain is yelling at him to stop being a fainting fuckass and go back to Dave, because he obviously doesn’t understand and deserves an explanation.  The rest of his brain is a screaming mess and pays his rational side no heed.

 

Dave wasn’t even all that badly off.  He had spliced twice.

 

“He spliced twice in two fucking days,” Karkat hisses to himself, burying his head in his knees.  The diving suit was leathery and crusted with drying salt.  “Two fucking days!”

 

Karkat thinks back to the Drop.  He can’t help it.  After three months of scrounging for fish scraps by the drainpipes, he had seen a troll crawling through a gutter rank with sewage.  Every time she found a scrap of glass or metal wire, she dove for it, carving at her arm before realizing that it was just scrap and dully tossing it aside.  She was a violet blood in a dress that Karkat was sure had once shone silver. 

 

Not a week before Dave’s performance at the Limbo Room, Karkat had been walking down Skid Row when a vagrant wrapped in a filthy carpet leapt at him from a nearby doorway.

 

“Sir!  Adam!  Sir!  Please!”

 

Brown popping bloodshot eyes looked back at him, and Karkat in his terror threw off a pair of pallid, bony hands that grasped him greedily.  He stared down at the human in disgust, until he saw the welts on his arms, the skin hanging loosely off his face.  He was falling apart right before Karkat’s eyes.

 

“Dammit, Dave,” Karkat swears.  He wishes Dave would come to his senses and maybe do that thing where he is nice and comforts Karkat.  Except that Dave is the one who needs help, and Karkat is just being a selfish wriggler.

 

But every time Karkat chides himself to get up and go back, pictures fill his head of Dave in a gutter tearing his arms open with copper hangers instead of hypos, Dave wearing a filthy rug to cover his rotting wounds, Dave as the masked fiend leaping at him from the darkness.  And then Karkat feels ready to vomit and can’t stand up.

 

Finally, however, when it becomes apparent that Dave isn’t coming to check up on him, Karkat stands and heads back to the airlock. 

 

“Dave?” Karkat calls.  The airlock is empty, except for Tavros’s corpse.  “Goddamn it, Dave, where are you?”

 

Karkat searches the testing facility, but finds nothing.

 

“Dave?  Dave, come on you ass this isn’t fucking funny.  Okay, haha, you’re doing your stupid teleport thing so I can’t find you.  Just come out already.”

 

After scouring each room twice, he comes to a heart-stopping conclusion: Dave has already gone. 

 

“Oh.  Oh fuck no,” Karkat says.  “Fuck no, this is not how this is going to be.”

 

Karkat runs back to the airlock, tripping a little on the metal stairs as he goes.  He jams his helmet on, checking the screws to make damn sure that it doesn’t suddenly spring a leak.  When he’s ready, when his oxygen tank’s refilled and suit pressure normalized, he floods the lock.  Tavros’s body floats up with the rising tide, and Karkat regrets the troll won’t get a better funeral.

 

“Rest in peace, Tavros,” he says.  The exterior door opens, and Karkat steps outside.

 

The ocean is black, but Rapture’s lights shine out through the gloom of the seafloor.  Karkat sets out in the direction of the lights, carefully making his way over rocks and pitfalls.  A school of fish darts around above his head, and he thinks he can see the torpedo body of a squid vanish from sight.

 

The nearest building he finds with lights on has an airlock that leads him into a narrow maintenance corridor.  Karkat ditches the diving suit in a locker and follows the corridor to a flight of stairs going up.  He hears the sounds of music and conversation drifting on the still, humid air as he ascends, finally reaching the top and opening a door into a carpeted hallway.  Smartly dressed chessmen carrying trays walk past, shooting him odd looks.  Karkat is suddenly self-conscious of his salt-stained shirt and grubby hands.  He moves quickly to the end of the hallway toward a set of push-doors before anyone can think to call security and have him ejected.

 

Unfortunately, the doors lead into a gilded dining hall.  A live orchestra plays before an enormous bay window overlooking a coral vista growing across the seafloor.  Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden light over the room.  If the chessmen were giving him looks, it’s nothing to the opulently dressed diners’ stares as Karkat surreptitiously makes his way around the edge of the hall to the exit.  He doesn’t get far.

 

“Excuse me,” a burly security troll says dressed in a plain white suit.

 

“What?” Karkat snaps, assuming a defensive stance.  He still has his gun, but is it worth it?

 

“Can you come with me, please?” the security troll asks, moving to grab Karkat’s bicep.  Karkat lets himself be steered out of the hall, into another employee’s only section.  Karkat sees the exit ahead of them, but the security troll shoves him into a tiny room with a few chairs and forces him to sit down.

 

“Don’t worry, little guy,” the troll says, cracking his knuckles.  “I’m gonna let you go.  But first I gotta ask you a few questions.  How’d an urchin like you squirm your way into a place like this?”

 

“Okay, look,” Karkat says, thinking fast.  “I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do, alright?  I got chased here by some fucking cultists.  I think they were planning on killing someone, and I overheard them.  They were down in the maintenance tunnels.”

 

The troll looks unimpressed.

 

“Down in the maintenance tunnels, right?  By the airlock and pressure controls?”

 

“Yes, down there, and if you don’t fucking hurry they could do some real damage to this place!”

 

The troll cracks his neck twice and then punches Karkat, breaking his nose.  Karkat falls off the chair with a curse, blood pouring down his face.

 

“What the fuck was that for, nookstain?”

 

“You’re gonna do better than that if you want to make it out of here in one piece,” the security troll begins.  He visibly pauses when he sees Karkat’s blood on his knuckles, however.  His gaze moves slowly from his fist down to where Karkat is crouched on the floor, facing away and seemingly clutching his nose, and then back to his fist.

 

“You’re a redblood.  That means you’re a Vant—.”

 

Karkat turns sharply and shoots the security troll in the leg.  He falls over with a yell, thrashing on the floor.  Karkat cocks the revolver again and aims it at the troll.

 

“Give me one stellar fucking reason why I shouldn’t just end your miserable life,” he hisses.

 

“Woah, hold on now,” the security troll puts his hands up in surrender, still on the ground.  He bleeds olive.  “You don’t want to do that.  Let’s be reasonable.”

 

“Oh, I’m being fucking reasonable, alright,” Karkat says.  “I’m reasonably sure you just tried to beat the shit out of me.  I’ll ask you one more time before I blow your fucking thinkpan to pieces: why the fuck shouldn’t I?”

 

“Wait, but you’re Vantas, right?  You’re that psychiatrist folk hero everyone used to talk about.”

 

Karkat clams up.

 

“And if I am?” he asks.

 

“No, you gotta be.  Ain’t no other trolls in this city with blood red as that.  But I don’t get it, you never seemed like the type to pull a gun on somebody.”

 

“I’ve had a terrible day,” Karkat says.  He considers briefly letting the misunderstanding continue.  “But you’re wrong.  I’m not Doctor Vantas.  I’m his…cousin, I guess?  Why don’t we have a better word for that?”

 

“For what?”

 

“You know how humans have their stupid nuclear families and they’ve all got words to describe each member’s relation to the others?  Why don’t we have anything like that?”

 

“I was properly raised by my lusus,” the security troll says, shaking his head uncomprehendingly.  “I don’t go for any of that human shit.”

 

“Whatever.  The point is, I’m not your goddamn psychiatrist.  I was sent down to the Drop on account of his sorry ass, which is probably why you’ve never heard of me.”

 

The security troll doesn’t respond, so Karkat simply rolls his eyes and walks toward the door, gun trained on the prone figure.  He steps out into the hallway, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and makes swiftly for the exit.  He needs to get his bearings, and then he can try to find Dave.  How hard can it be to find a stupid pale blonde human with red eyes and a cheap sword in this town?

 

Karkat exits and finds himself in a generator room, with stairs leading up labeled ‘courtyard’.  Karkat looks around for any kind of towel or cloth to put over his still bleeding nose snatching up a greasy rag hanging on a railing nearby.  He holsters his gun and ascends to street level.  A banner hangs in a nearby shop window: _Christmas Sales Event, One Week Only!_

 

“One week until Christmas?” Karkat reads.  He goes to a newspaper kiosk and picks up the latest Tribune.  December 18, 1959.  “What the fuck is Christmas?”

 

 

***

 

 

Jane walks back to her flat with her arm in a sling.  Vriska had told her she was free to go, but to expect her to call soon, “In c8se we need your services a8ain!!!!!!!!”  So Jane had retrieved her things, dressed, submitted to being blindfolded and taken by a purposefully confusing route out of Vriska’s hideout.  When the blindfold was removed, she was standing in the streets alone.  She could at least see and recognize the Tribune tower, and found her way back home from there.

 

As she walks, she passes by a news kiosk and picks up the day’s paper.  The headline catches her attention immediately.

 

_CHERUB FUTURISTICS AUCTION ATTACKED!  DOZENS DROWN_

_City’s Elite Suffer Major Blow From Unknown Threats, Sources Speculate_

_In an attack of unprecedented violence, a number of explosives of undetermined strength were detonated early this morning during the controversial auction of Cherub Futuristics.  The bombs were detonated in the building’s rooftop submarine bay, quickly flooding major stairwells and elevators, trapping many.  Rescue efforts have thus far managed to recover a number of survivors who managed to seal themselves in a secure area near the plasmid theater.  However, dozens of citizens met with a watery demise when the theater’s doors caved under pressure, flooding the room._

_City leader and chief executive of Egbert Industries, John Egbert, was in attendance, but miraculously managed to escape unscathed._

Jane lets out a sigh of relief, quickening her pace home.  When she arrives, she immediately calls Egbert Industries.

 

“Hello?  I’d like to speak to John please, this is urgent.  Inspector Jane Crocker.  Thank you, I’ll hold.”

 

She listens to a recording of jazz guitar while she waits, tapping her foot impatiently.  Finally, the line connects through.

 

“Hello?”

 

“John!” Jane says.  “Thank goodness, you’re alright!”

 

“Hi, Jane.  Yeah, it was a close call.  But don’t worry, it takes more than a half-baked bomb plot to…”

 

“John, I need you to listen to me for a moment,” Jane says.  “This is urgent.”

 

“Alright, Jane.  Shoot.”

 

“I met Vriska Serket,” Jane says.  There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, but she barrels forward.  “Rather, she saved my life some weeks back, and I’ve been in her care since.  I was just allowed back today.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Rose and I were investigating the Felt, and, and,” Jane says, suddenly slapping herself in the forehead.  “Dammit, John I don’t care if this phone is tapped, I have to warn you immediately that you are in mortal danger!”

 

“I believe you.”

 

“You do?” Jane asks, a little incredulous.

 

“Yeah.  Actually, I met with Aranea Serket yesterday, and she told me an interesting story.  Anyway, we should discuss this in person.  How soon can you get here?”

 

“I can be there within the hour,” Jane says.

 

“Good.  I’ll clear my appointments.  Oh, Jane,” John says just as Jane is about to hang up.  “Listen, I’m sorry if I’ve treated you badly before.  I wouldn’t have made it this far without you and your sleuthing.  Thank you.”

 

“Oh, of course not,” Jane says.  “What else is family for?  I’ll see you soon.”

 

“Yeah.  Bye, Jane!”

 

Jane takes a moment to sit down and catch her breath before running back out to the bathysphere station.  She is impatient during the ride, staring out the window at the buildings that slide by too slowly.  Finally, the bathysphere docks at Hephaestus.  Jane strides out into the station, only to be stopped by Spades Slick.

 

“Evening, Inspector,” he says, unsmiling.

 

“Evening, Slick,” Jane says.

 

“How’d you like to come with me and the boys here?  We’ve got some questions we’d like to ask.”

 

As Slick talks, a half dozen black chessmen step out from behind various bits of ineffective cover.  Jane really should have noted most of them the moment she stepped out of the bathysphere, but taking one’s eyes off of Slick is not recommended.  She sighs with impatience.

 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” Jane says.  “I don’t care what kind of dastardly arrangement you have with the Felt, I am warning John and if I have to go through you and all the goons in Hephaestus then so be it.”

 

Jane has her free hand in her pocket, gripping a round device that Vriska had given to her for luck.  Spade clucked his tongue at her.

 

“A wise-cracking broad like you with one good arm ain’t even worth the time of day.  Boys, give her a once-over and let’s get out of here.”

 

As the thugs approach, Jane depresses a switch on the device and throws it in front of her.  A cloud of cerulean smoke fills the room, giving Jane the cover she needs to run past Slick and down the steps into the administrative building.  She doesn’t get far, however, before more security drones begin to surround her.

 

She slips into an office, barricading the door before crouching down and opening up the vent grating.  With one arm, it takes longer than she’d hoped, and she doesn’t have time to replace it before the door crashes open.  She quickly absconds, turning a few times until she finds another grating.  Glancing out, she sees the hall in front of the central control building, where John’s office is.  Unfortunately it’s crowded with security chessmen, and impossible to get through.

 

“Alright,” she hears Slick talking.  “Nobody gets past here.  If you see the girl, bring her to me in one piece.”

 

Jane moves along the ducts to a different grating, which she kicks open, letting the metal crash loudly on the floor.  She crawls back to the hall to see if her ruse worked.  About a third of the chessmen move to investigate, which is better, but not optimal.  She crawls in the opposite direction as quickly as she can, finding another duct grating and doing the same thing again.

 

“She’s in the air ducts!” someone yells.  Jane quickly returns to the hall to find that most of the chessmen have run off to one of the gratings she’s opened.  She kicks this last one out and jumps to the floor, landing hard.  The last two chessmen look at her menacingly.

 

“She’s in the hall!” one of them shouts as Jane, panicking, runs straight at them, reaching into her coat as if to draw a gun.  One of the chessmen buys it, diving aside.  The other stands his ground like a wrestler.  Jane at the last minute dives to the side, rolling past him as he swipes at her with his arms.  She rolls, getting to her feet and jumping into the bulkhead.  She locks it behind her, a measure that will only buy her a few minutes, and proceeds into Rapture Central Control.

 

John is pacing in his office when she bursts in, out of breath.

 

“John!” she says.  “Slick’s a few minutes behind me, I haven’t got much time.”

 

“Jane!  What are you talking about?”

 

“Slick tried to detain me at the station,” Jane gasps.  “And he cut my interrogation of Terezi short a few weeks back.  He stole my casebook and threatened me with a knife.  I don’t think he’s trustworthy.”

 

Jane puts her hands on her knees, breathing hard.  John pulls a chair over to her so she can sit.

 

“Tell me exactly what happened,” He says.

 

“No, that’s not why I’m here,” Jane replies.  “Slick’s only part of it.  There’s another gang, called the Felt, and they’re planning to overthrow Rapture.”

 

“What?  How?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jane says.  “I only know that their headquarters was the Felt Lounge, and their leader, Snowman, is a talented singer and fencer.  She did this to me.”

 

Jane gestures at her sling, wincing.  All the rolling and running and climbing did no favors for her recovery.

 

“Do you think Slick and Snowman are working together?” John asks seriously.  “I’ve been getting the impression for a while that he’s been managing things around here, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Jane says.  “The way Vriska explained it to me when I realized, they’re in some kind of rivalry over who controls the city.  Slick’s winning, but Snowman’s got a move she hasn’t made yet.  It’s going to be devastating, whatever it is.”

 

There are bangs and shouts from the lobby, and Jane quickly stands up.

 

“Blast!  I thought I had more time.”

 

“This way,” John says, leading her over to a vent grating in the wall near the floor.  “Left, right, left again, and then down.  It’s a fall, so try and brace yourself.  Good luck.  I’ll call you later if it’s safe.”

 

“Thanks,” Jane says, disappearing inside.  John replaces the grating and walks calmly over to his desk.  When his door is thrown open, he is leaning against it, reading a maintenance report from Heat Loss Monitoring.  Slick stands there, eyes sweeping around the room.

 

“Everything alright, Slick?” John asks.

 

“It’s nothing,” Slick says, eyeing Jane’s previously occupied chair.  It is conspicuously in the middle of the room.  “There was another assassin, and they got past the hall guards.”

 

“Is everyone alright?” John asks, trying to keep from glancing at the chair.

 

“Yeah, just a few bruised egos.  Should be no problem, but boss you might want to consider vacating the premises until we find the intruder.”

 

“I didn’t hear anything,” John says.  “Are you sure they were assassins?  Maybe they went after the central control computer.”

 

“I think it would be best for everyone if you were taken somewhere safe,” Slick presses.  “My boys here will see you to a safe house, where you can lie low for a while.  I’ll get this cleaned up.”

 

“Alright, Slick,” John says as two burly chessmen escort him out.  “I trust you.”

 

Slick watches him as he leaves, and John works to contain his sigh of relief when he is finally out from under Slick’s scrutiny.

 

Jane meanwhile has discovered the fall, and carefully as she can tries to ease herself down the dark air duct shaft.  She slips, however, and slides down before being deposited on a sandy beach.  Her ankle twists, causing her grit her teeth.  She looks around the new place.

 

Jane is in an undersea cavern, full of sand, rocks, and starfish.  Nearby, however, is a sophisticated harbor crane, claw currently empty.  Installed on the crane’s side is an emergency phone.  Jane picks it up, noting that it has no dial—single access only.

 

“Hello?” she says into the mouthpiece, leaning against the crane to take pressure off her ankle.

 

“Helloooooooo there Inspector!  Long time no see!”

 

“Vriska?”

 

“Of course!  Who else would have such an elaborately furnished secret hideout?”

 

Jane shakes her head.  She really should have seen that coming.

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Ah, ah, ah!  All in good time, Inspector!  All in good time.  Now!  It seems as though you’re having an emergency.”

 

“I broke into Rapture Central Control under duress, and now I’m being pursued by the Midnight Crew.”

 

“I let you walk out on your own for a day, and this is what you do with your time?  No wonder I found you bleeding out and drowning in an airlock.  You just don’t know how to stay out of trou8le, do you?”

 

Jane grits her teeth again.

 

“Look, I just need some help, a little assistance, that’s all.  We can discuss payment terms later.”

 

Vriska laughs, a cold, self-satisfied chuckle that makes Jane’s skin crawl.  She instantly regrets her own words.

 

“8old!  I like it!  We’ll make arrangements when you arrive.  In the meantime, you’ll want to use the crane.  Press the green button to lower the sub into the water, and the whie button to disengage.  Remember: green then white!  And then just let the autopilot take care of everything!”

 

“Thanks, Vriska,” Jane says.

 

“No problem, Inspector!  No problem at all!”

 

Jane hangs up the phone, briefly considering allowing herself to be caught so that she would not be in hock to a notoriously insane gangster.  On the other hand, allowing herself to get caught puts her in the hands of the Midnight Crew.  Her choice is clear.

 

“*sigh* I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it.”

 

She finds a control panel on the side of the crane with colored buttons.  She presses the green one first, causing the crane to lower the bathysphere it carries into a deep pool of water.  She presses the white one, and the claws retract from the sphere.  The door of the bathysphere swings open invitingly, and Jane steels herself for the journey before stepping inside.

 

 

***

 

 

Feferi returns to her flat, which has been refurbished good as new in less than a week, exhausted and at her wit’s end.  Fielding questions about the rumored activities of her wayward daughter prove to be almost a greater challenge than if Meenah _hadn’t_ disappeared into a billiards-themed gang.  Her most recent charity ball was practically ruined when a mob of paparazzi swarmed her on the marble steps down to the ballroom floor, forcing her to negotiate her way through without saying anything incriminating.  Hers was a stressful job, and few people could appreciate the fact.

 

She collapses into her armchair and lights a cigarette.  She is just beginning to relax, smoke halo forming in the air around her side-table lamp, when the front door to the flat opens.  Feferi sits up, watching the foyer sharply for intruders.  Only one person could sneak past the automated security so quickly and quietly.  But surely it couldn’t—.

 

“Sup, Mom,” Meenah says, slouching into the room wearing her normal trenchcoat and street clothes. 

 

“Meenah!  Where have you been?  Do you know how worried I was when you didn’t come back or trawl home?  You might’ve been dead, for all I knew!  What’s wrong?”

 

Meenah shrugs.

 

“Hey, listen,” Meenah says.  “I been thinkin reel hard atrout the Foundation.  And all these responsibilities you want me to take on.  And I was pretty shellfish about the whole thing.”

 

“What are you saying?” Feferi asks eyes narrowed suspiciously.

 

“I’m sayin’,” Meenah replies, shrugging again.  “I’ll be yer heir.  That is, if you still want to hand me the wheel.”

 

Feferi quietly takes her shock out back and slaughters it.  She waits for the catch, which never comes.

 

“Alright,” Feferi says.  “Let’s say I believe you.  There are going to be some serious changes around here if you want a hope in the world of surviving your debut next week.  If you don’t make a pool of yourself in front of all of Rapture on New Year’s, then I’ll consider naming you my heir.  Otherwise, you are dead to me.  Got that?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Good,” Feferi nods.  “Now, your room shoald be as it was before you flooded it, and all your clothes have been replaced.  Go get some sleep—we have a lot of work tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I missed the one-month anniversary of this fic by two and a half-hours. Also I promise you will not have to wait so long for chapter 12.
> 
> "But Dis, I thought you said we'd get to Persephone soon!" you say.
> 
> I'm also a terrible liar. Terrible as in it's terrible that I lie so much.


	12. The Abyss

He’s sure he has a name.

 

He has hands, and feet, and eyes, and he can see, and touch, but he can’t walk.  He has a mouth.  He breathes air.  He hears a weak noise leaving his chest with his ears.  He smells salt, and iron, and alcohol.  He is cold.

 

Someone is standing over him.  He can feel their hands on his arm, can see black lips pursed ever so slightly.  He thinks this person has a name, but he can’t remember it.  He knows he has a name.  What is his name?

 

He can feel.  He can feel something cold pierce his skin.  His heart pulses, sending a cool current up his arm.  He is relaxed.  He is cold, and it is dark, but this is how it’s been.  How long has it been?

 

The other tuts.  He hears her voice.

 

“You are getting weaker, Kappa.”

 

Is his name Kappa?  _Kappa-omicron-pi-iota-sigma_.  His name is Kappa.

 

The other smiles gently, revealing a pair of symmetric fangs.  She has an angelic aura.  Kappa feels himself grow drowsy.

 

“Do not fear.  We will soon have you on your feet.”

 

She is the definition of beatific.  Kappa loves her like a mother (hasn’t she always been his mother?  Where is his mother?  Kappa does not know her), and turns his head to watch her depart.  There are iron frame beds (they rust.  Are they old?), and there are fluorescent lights (they are off.  The bulbs are missing), and he can see dark shapes lying down, like himself (some of them have horns.  He knows someone with horns.  Someone dear.  Where are they?  _Who_ are they?  He feels sad, and water pools at the corners of his eyes).  She walks, and casts her heavenly glow on the others.  Some reach out to her, and she comforts them.

 

Kappa turns his head the other way.  There is…glass.  There is a bed between his bed and a wall of glass.  A star sticks to the glass, little suckers clinging to it fast.  Beyond the glass is blackness.  He hears rather than sees or feels the press of currents on metal and concrete.  He is underwater.  Where is he?

 

His name is Kappa.  He is underwater.  He is missing someone.

 

When she is gone (the door closes with a soft click.  The others start up a chorus of moans.  They suffer.  Kappa suffers because they suffer), the light disappears.  There is a lamp on a desk far away, and it is on, but the inky shadows fill the room, and the black ocean presses in, and Kappa is afraid.  Kappa is afraid, and angry.

 

But Kappa is tired, and his consciousness slips away from him.  There is no light now.  There is only shade (blackness.  Despair.  Umbra.  Fear.  Far down.  Below.  Lying below.  Kappa lies below).

 

 

***

 

 

The street is silent, except for the hum of neon lights.  Enormous golden statues flank the doors into a nearby casino, which is closed.  Bullet holes in the façade and rubble strewn over the ground hint at an earlier conflict that was much reported in the Tribune: the Christmas Season Riots.  Two bodies lie on the steps up to the casino doors, a woman and a troll, hands clasped in frieze.  A little sister hums to herself as she draws blood out of the woman through a long needle.

 

From the balcony of a nearby hotel, Cronus watches, cigarette in hand, a hunting rifle propped up against the bars.  A pair of splicers slink out of the shadows toward the girl.  One wears the mask of a butterfly, and carries a pistol, while the other has on a simple domino, although his head is largely bandaged.  He carries a pipe, which he taps on the ground as he walks.

 

“Who’s there?” the little sister shouts, clutching her needle close.

 

“Now, now, little girl,” the domino says.  “No need to be alarmed.  Just two old busybodies walkin’ the streets.”

 

The little sister cowers back as the splicers approach.  The butterfly is on the stairs, smiling under her mask.

 

“There’s no need to be afraid,” she says, holding out her empty hand.  “Why don’t you tell us where you parents are, and we can bring you home safe?”

 

“Just do as the nice lady says,” the domino says, looming a little over the girl.  She continues to cower.

 

“Come on, we haven’t got all night!” the butterfly all but shouts, grabbing the little sister by the arm.  She screams.

 

There’s a loud roar from somewhere down the street.

 

“Shit!” the butterfly curses.  “I thought you said this one was alone!”

 

“She was!  Don’t yell at me, you dumb bitch, just get ready to run!”

 

The butterfly yanks on the girl’s arm, who continues to scream, trying to pull away.  The domino spins his pipe, his free hand ablaze with fire.

 

“Come on, come on,” he says quietly.  “Come to papa, you great palooka.”

 

A Big Daddy, lights burning red, lumbers around a corner, drill in hand.  The domino lets loose a jet of flame, igniting the Big Daddy’s suit.  It roars again, and charges forward, drill first.  The domino jumps out of the way, and the Big Daddy smashes into the casino doors.  Broken glass falls everywhere, and alarms sound inside the building.

 

“Don’t hurt Mr. Bubbles!” the little sister cries as the butterfly unsuccessfully attempts to wrangle her into submission.  The Big Daddy rights itself, but the butterfly takes aim with her revolver, letting the girl go, and fires six rounds.  Glass cracks, and the suit depressurizes, but the Big Daddy simply charges the butterfly down.  With a sickening wet buzzing sound, it tears her apart with its drill, tossing her body down the street.

 

“No!  Gladys!”

 

The domino jumps onto the Big Daddy’s back, shooting fire directly into the broken faceplate.  He is disloged by the Big Daddy’s drill, but with a loud bang the suit’s airtank explodes.  It falls over, charred and broken, and goes still.  Cronus picks up his rifle and aims it at the domino.

 

“I won?  Haha!  Gladys, look!  I took the fucker down!  More juicy ADAM for us!”

 

Bang!

 

The splicer falls dead.  Cronus shoulders the rifle and makes his way back down to street level.  He goes over to the domino, nudging the corpse with his toe.  When he gets no response, he sorts through the splicer’s pockets, recovering a few dollars and a half-empty vial of ADAM.

 

“Wvell, I guess that’s not bad.”

 

Cronus listens, and hears the sound of whimpering coming from inside a nearby outdoor café.  He follows the crying, and finds the little sister hiding behind a table.  She trembles when she sees Cronus, terrified.

 

“Hey, little one,” Cronus says, trying not to mimic the splicers’ behavior.  “Are you lost?”

 

“Go away!  I don’t like you!” the little sister cries.

 

“Ain’t no reason to be like that.  Didn’t your daddy teach you any manners?”

 

The little sister hiccups and shakes her head, still cringing.

 

“Wvell then, my name’s Cronus.  I’m vwery pleased to meet you,” Cronus says, offering his hand for the girl to shake.  The little sister shrieks and hides her face.  Cronus quickly withdraws his hand.  “Sorry.  I, uh, didn’t mean to scare you.  Wvhat’s your name?”

 

The little sister says nothing, tears and snot streaming down her face.  Cronus holds out a hand as if to say, ‘wait a second,’ and goes quickly out to the street.  By the corpses of the couple, he finds a doll—a poorly tacked together little thing, thumbtacks stuck into a baseball on an old ragdoll.  Cronus has seen worse renditions of the Big Daddy, but he scoops up the thing and brings it back to the little sister.

 

“Hey there,” he says.  “Look wvhat I found.”

 

The girl stops sniffing and looks at it, pale eyes glowing steadily.  Cronus holds the doll out to her, which she grabs quickly and hugs.

 

“Where’s daddy?” she asks.  “Where’s Mr. B?”

 

“Wvhy don’t you come wvith me?  I knowv someone wvho can help you find him.  She’s really nice.”

 

The little sister sniffs again, but nods, taking Cronus’s hand.  He leads her out of the café, careful to avoid letting her see the fallen Big Daddy nearby.  They enter a glass tunnel, under a large neon sign that says Poseidon Plaza.  A ways away, Cronus can see a pair of submarines floating near Athena’s Glory.

 

“Mister Cronus, I’m tired,” the little sister says, half an hour later.  “I want my daddy.  You said you’d find him.”

 

“No, wvhat I said wvas I knewv someone wvho could help you find him.  Wve’re here, actually.”

 

Cronus knocks on the door to his flat, and opens it using his spare key.  The living room holds no fewer than four little sisters, currently enraptured by the television commercials.  Meulin runs in.

 

“Mister Cronus!  Mister Cronus, look I made a drawing!”

 

She thrusts a sheet of paper into his hand.  She has drawn in crayon a picture of herself and Roxy holding hands in the park, surrounded by butterflies.  At least, Cronus suspects that the smears of blue and purple are supposed to be butterflies.

 

“That’s great!  Havwe you showvn this to Miss Roxy yet?”

 

Meulin shakes her head.

 

“She’s busy.  I want to go on a walk, but she’s in her room drawing on the chalkboard.”

 

At the mention of walk, the little sisters on the couch perk up.

 

“Mister Cronus, are we going for a walk?”

 

“Please, can we come too?  I want to go find an angel!”

 

“Can we get ice cream?”

 

“Mister Cronus, how long do we have to stay here?  I miss my daddy.”

 

Cronus hushes them all.  They gather around his knees, not noticing the new little sister.  They stare up at Cronus with big, round eyes, all identical pale shades of glowing yellow.

 

“I promise wve’ll go on a wvalk later.  Right nowv, I’vwe got to go havwe a growvn-up convwersation wvith Miss Roxy.”

 

A disappointed chorus follows him through the kitchen to the spare room, where Roxy has set up a nursery-stroke-laboratory.  A record on the bedside table plays ‘It Had To Be You’.  Roxy is at the chalkboard writing out a complicated chemical equation, and doesn’t pause when Cronus shuts the door with a snap.  The new little sister hides behind him, holding her doll like a shield.  Cronus clears his throat.

 

“Hope I’m not interruptin’,” he says.  Roxy holds up a finger and keeps writing.

 

“Hang on a sec,” she says.  “Gotta get this out ‘fore I forget it.”

 

“Wvhat is it?”

 

“It’s The Formula,” Roxy says with emphasis.  Cronus looks at her blankly.

 

“The formula.”

 

“Nono, The Formula, gotta capitalize that shit,” Roxy says.

 

“Wvatch yer language!  Wve’vwe got a guest!” Cronus chides.  Roxy turns and sees the little sister behind Cronus.  She puts the chalk down, smiling brightly at the girl. 

 

“Hello there!” she crouches down so she and the little sister are at eye level.  The girl’s hand tightens on Cronus’s fingers.  “My name’s Miss Roxy.  What’s your name?”

 

The girl shakes a little, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

 

“Where’s daddy?” she asks.

 

“Oh, sweetie,” Roxy says.  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.  We’ve got lots of girls here looking for their daddies.  We'll look for all those missing daddies together! You can count on us.”

 

The child considers that for a moment, and then nods.

  
“I miss him,” she says.

 

“I know you do,” Roxy takes the girl’s hand and leads her back out into the living room.  “And he misses you, too.  He’s lookin’ for you as hard as he can.  But, if you stay here with everyone else, it’ll be easier for him to find you.”

 

“Really?” the girl asks hopefully.

 

“Trust Miss Roxy on this one,” Roxy says.  “Now, why don’t you go play with the other girls?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Roxy comes back into the spare room, closing out the high chatter of children playing by the television.  Cronus examines the chalkboard, trying to make sense of the notes written there. 

 

“Unless you’ve got a PhD in genetics, I’d be surprised if you could make sense o’ that.”

 

“Yeah,” Cronus says, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I’m a bit outta my depth here, doc.”

 

Roxy nods.  There’s a knock on the room door.  Roxy opens it to see one of the other little sisters, wearing a pink dress and a ribbon in her hair, holding her stomach and looking ill.

 

“Miss Roxy, I feel bad.”

 

“Alright, come with me then,” Roxy takes the girl’s hand and leads her over to the bed.  She hoists the little girl up and grabs a nearby bowl.  “Now, you’re gonna have to be brave for Miss Roxy, alright?”

 

The little sister nods.  Roxy opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out a cotton swab.

 

“Open wide,” she instructs.

 

The little sister obeys, and Roxy, as gently as she can, sticks the swab down the back of her throat.  The girl gags, and vomits into the bowl.  Thick, green mucous splashes into the basin.  Roxy rubs circles on the little sister’s back as she pukes up all the ADAM in her stomach.  When she is finished, Roxy takes the bowl away and wipes the girl’s mouth.

 

“That’s a good girl,” Roxy coos.  “You were very brave.  You should have a nap, now.”

 

The little sister nods.  Cronus takes his cue from Roxy, and picks the girl up to lay down on one of the makeshift cots set up in the corner.  Once she’s tucked in, Cronus gets her a doll to hold.  She yawns and soon nods off.

 

“Wve’re gonna havwe to get more cots soon,” Cronus says.

 

“There aren’t enough as it is.  But that should be enough ADAM for now.”

 

“That newv one,” Cronus says.  “She’d been harvwestin’ wvhen I found her.  Had to savwe her from a couple of splicers, but at least they savwed me the trouble of taking dowvn another Big Daddy.”

 

Roxy nods.

 

“That’s a relief.  I don’t think I could handle explainin’ why Mister Cronus won’t be comin’ by anymore, even if they’re mostly still brainwashed.  Meulin’d be devastated.  Just, you know, be careful out there.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Cronus says.

 

“But gettin’ back to an earlier point: we’re runnin’ out of space.  I don’t think we’ll be able to take any more girls.  At least not until I’ve had a chance to see if I can get The Formula to work.”

 

“You knowv I’m not makin’ enough to stand for relocatin’.  This place is expensivwe as it is, and that’s wvithout feedin’ a fugitivwe and a half-dozen wvrigglers.”

 

“I know,” Roxy frowns.  “But there are just so many girls out there, and I’ve got a responsibility to the dear sweet precious things.  What I’m sayin’ is we can’t be looking for more at the present time.  Not until we’ve taken care of the ones we’ve got.”

 

“So wvhat’s this Formula,” Cronus air-quotes the word.  Roxy rolls her eyes.  “Wvhat’s it supposed to accomplish?”

 

“Ideally it kills the slug,” Roxy says, going back to the chalkboard to pick up where she left off.  “That’s the first thing.  The trick is to do it without killing the host, which is the difficult part.  I’m thinking the best way to go about it is developing a compound that targets the markers for the slug DNA that lets the thing know when to ooze ADAM into its host.  Get rid of those, and the body should reject it.  I hope.”

 

“I didn’t understand most of that,” Cronus admits.  “But I trust you knowv wvhat you’re doing.”

 

“Sometimes I wish.”

 

“If anyone can figure this thing out, it’s you,” Cronus maintains.  “You’re one of the city’s best and brightest, right?”

 

Roxy smirks ruefully.

 

“Yeah, I guess that’s what they called me.  Anyway, I’ve got important science-y work to do.  You should go take some of the girls for a walk.  They’ve been gettin’ pretty stir-crazy in front of that TV.”

 

Cronus nods and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb the scientist or the sleeping child.  In the living room, he finds Meulin holding court.

 

“Hey, girls,” he says.  “Wvho wvants to go for a wvalk?”

 

“I do!  I do!  Mister Cronus, can we go to the park?”

 

 

***

 

 

Sir Jake English is on the phone with Jade when there’s a knock at his office door.

 

“Hang on, Jade, I’ve got a client.  No, I gave my secretary off today.  I’m fending for myself!  Yes.  Tonight at seven?  Splendid!  I’ll see you then.”

 

Jake bustles over to the door, relishing the subtle ostentation he’d managed to achieve with his office.  The rug was Persian, and he had two miniature works he’d purchased from an auction in Fort Frolic hanging on the walls, tucked between light fixtures.  The curtains were dyed using locally available pigments that were all the rage.

 

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, please come i—,” Jake started, and paused when he saw who had knocked.

 

“Ah, yes,” he opened the door wider, his winning smile faltering.  “Please, come inside.  Have a seat.  Would you like something to drink?”

 

Jake pulled up a leather seat for his guest, and went to his liquor cabinet to pour a couple of snifters of brandy.  Handing one to his guest, he took his own seat behind the desk.

 

“I assume this is about the most recent expenses report,” he began.  “Not to worry!  There were a few unforeseen expenses, what with the housing project changing hands mid-way through our operation, but I’ve got everything under control.  We’re re-negotiating prices with Egbert Industries as we speak.”

 

Jake feels his smile slipping further.  He takes a drink to calm his nerves and rifles through his desk for some papers.

 

“I know, I know!  You said one of the conditions of the loan was not to do any business with John Egbert, but look, the circumstances evolved out of my control!  There’s really too much at stake for us not to finish the job now, isn’t that right?  Indubitably!  So I think we can agree to let this one slide for now.  Let’s have another drink!”

 

Jake tosses the papers down on his desk and refills his glass.  His guest hasn’t touched their own.  Jake takes another drink, and then tugs at his collar.

 

“Alright, yes, we can cancel the contract, but by Jove these escape clauses are absolutely beastly!  It’s really more trouble than it’s worth.  Look, there’s really no profit to gain by backing out now, is there?  Don’t you think so, old bean?  You’re not really going to insist on that silly old condition, are you?”

 

Evidently they are.  Jake swallows nervously.

 

“Alright, alright!  I’ll call John right now and tell him the deal’s off.  Not another penny in our coffers will come from that blighter’s bankroll.  But, well, you know, this is going to be rather costly for us.  I really meant it when I said we couldn’t afford not to finish the job.  Perhaps if you would be willing to float us another line, just for this one instance…?  Oh, thank god!  I thought my number was up on that one.  Of course, we’ll hash out the terms later.  I don’t expect it will be cheap for me, but, ha ha, that’s part of the adventure, is it not?”

 

Jake picks up his desk phone and calls Egbert Industries, doing his best not to appear nervous.  He doesn’t think he’s fooling anyone, but confound it at least he’s trying.

 

“Hello, John!  Jake English speaking.  Yes, that’s the thing.  Look, something’s come up, and I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel the clean-up job.  Yes, effective immediately.  Sorry, but that’s just business!  I’m sure you’ll find someone else to pick up where we left off.  Of course, I’ll have my people get in touch.  Apologies for the short notice, old chap.  Have a nice day!”

 

Jake hangs up the phone.  He looks at his guest for approval.

 

“Alright, I’ve done my part, as we agreed.  Now, was that all?  Are you sure?  Alright, then.  Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you brought this to my attention.  I can promise you, we’ll have no difficulties meeting our commitments next month.  Yes, thank you again, let me see you out.”

 

Jake holds the door open for his guest.  When they’ve gone, he shuts it, walking quickly back over to the liquor cabinet.  He foregoes the glass, drinking straight from the bottle.

 

“That was unpleasant,” he says, after choking down quite a lot of brandy.  “Crimeny, what are we going to do to pay this off now?”

 

He looks at the contracts on his desktop.  The housing project was worth more than the others combined.  Jake had been hoping that this turn of events could be circumvented, as he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what he would do if it did. 

 

“Well,” Jake says.  “Nobody said Sir Jake English couldn’t play for both sides.”

 

Jake goes back to his deskphone.  He dials a number he’d rather hoped never to use more than once.  Alas, such is business!

 

“Diamonds, a chap’s best friend!  Listen, Jake English here, I wondered if perhaps your previous offer still stood?”

 

 

***

 

 

Karkat walks a familiar beat.  He’s trying to find the building Dave’s apartment had been, but seems to have found his way to Port Neptune.  He remembers it dimly from his early days in Rapture—seems that most trolls end up down by the docks one way or the other, and that at least hadn’t changed—and stops by the Fighting Nitram’s for a drink.  He slides up to the bar, and drops his last dollar before the bartender.

 

“Cheapest shit this can get,” he says.

 

“Sure thing.”

 

Karkat keeps his head low, not glancing around to see if anyone has noticed him.  The olive security guard wasn’t the first to remark on how very much like his cousin he appeared, and given how Tavros (albeit drunkenly) mistook him outright for the bastard, Karkat supposes he shouldn’t be surprised.  The bartender hands him a shot of vodka.

 

“Hey,” Karkat says.  The bartender turns back to him.

 

“Yeah?  There something I can help you with…little man?”

 

Karkat bristles a little, but doesn’t make a fuss.

 

“You have any spare rooms here?  I don’t have any money, but I can work here at the bar if you need free labor.”

 

“Everything alright?  Not to pry or anything…only, you look pretty down…”

 

“Yeah, everything’s fucking peaches and cream,” Karkat says, throwing back.  “Just, look, can you help me or not?  I don’t have all day.  I’m…I’m looking for someone.”

 

“Well…I dunno about working here…but if you need a place to say, I can put you up in the store room…it’s no trouble…”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Karkat mutters.  The bartender slides him another drink.

 

“On the house…really, it’s no trouble at all…just let me know when you want to head down…”

 

“Oh.  Thanks,” Karkat says.  He doesn’t drink it just yet, contenting himself with listening to the sounds from the fiduspawn match in the back room.  Customers come and go, and after an hour Karkat is still staring at his drink, and he hasn’t had a brilliant stroke of inspiration to help his search for Dave.  He drinks it down, and flags the bartender.

 

“You turning in already…?”

 

Karkat nods.  The bartender whistles for an assistant from the back to come in and take over, hangs up his apron, and leads Karkat down the stairs into the basement.  At the bottom of the stairs, he unlocks a door and they enter the storage room.

 

“You’re not the first person that needed a place to stay…for just a few days at least…so it’s kind of already set up, although I can’t say if the sheets are clean…”

 

“That’s fine.  I’ve been worse places,” Karkat says.  Behind a couple of crates is a cot with a scratchy-looking blanket, an oil lamp, and a small pile of books.  “Thanks.  For doing this, I mean.  Lately it feels like I’ve just been relying on kind strangers to look out for me, which is a fucking surreal experience.  But I appreciate it.”

 

“Sure thing…it’s the least I could do for the guy who helped out my little Tav so much…”

 

Karkat cricks his neck with the speed he turns around.  The bartender is smiling knowingly.

 

“What the fuck did you just say?” Karkat demands.

 

“Not a troll up there didn’t recognize the great Doctor Vantas…although I gotta say, you’re a bit shorter than I remember…and scruffier…but that’s what happens when you fall on the wrong side of the man…”

 

Karkat slaps his hand to his forehead.  Of course coming into a troll bar in the troll part of town would get him spotted.

 

“Okay, fuck, listen,” Karkat says.  “I’m not who you think I am.  Apparently this was some top-secret government information, or I don’t fucking know, but my name’s Karkat.  Kankri’s my cousin.  We’re not the same troll.  Fuck, the only thing we have in common is our vibrantly mutated blood.”

 

“Oh, oh woah…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…”

 

“No, don’t worry about it.  You’re not the first one to make that mistake.  Just, fuck, did everyone really think the great Doctor Kankri Vantas strolled into the Fighting Nitram’s for a drink?”

 

“Yeah…well, I got a lot of trolls askin’ about it…I kept them off your back, though, since you looked like you wanted to be left alone…which seemed strange, but who am I to question the brain of a great doctor…although I guess since you’re not _the_ doctor it wouldn’t have been right for people to be harassing you…”

 

“No, thanks for that.  I’m just…Okay, but wait, can we back up for a second?  You said I’d helped someone for you?”

 

“Yeah, my cousin Tavros…”

 

“Oh,” Karkat said, heart dropping to his shoes.

 

“Sorry, I guess you don’t know him…that must’ve seemed pretty strange, being told something like that…”

 

Karkat coughs.

 

“Uh, yeah.  Listen.  Um.  Thanks again for the bed.”

 

“Sure thing, little man…I’ll just let you sleep for a bit, and if anyone comes asking I’ll say they missed you…”

 

“I would appreciate that.”

 

“Sleep tight…” the bartender says, and turns to go.

 

“Wait,” Karkat says.  “What’s your name?”

 

“Rufioh.”

 

“No, what’s your full name?”

 

“Rufioh Nitram.”

 

Karkat had been hoping that maybe there was some other troll named Tavros running around Rapture.  Who had a connection to Kankri.  A connection that would warrant sly, knowing looks from said Tavros’ relative.

 

“Fuck,” Karkat swears.  Rufioh raises an eyebrow.

 

“Something up…?”

 

“Hey, when does this place close up?  I don’t want to keep you from work.”

 

“Couple hours from now…why?”

 

“Can we talk, later?  I need to sleep right now.  But.  Yeah.”

 

“Sure thing…” Rufioh smiles, and disappears around the boxes.  Karkat flops back on the cot, cursing and staring at the ceiling.  Of course.  Of _course_.  Karkat rolls over and tries to sleep, but only manages a fitful doze.  The roars of fiduspawn spectators keep him up as much as his guilt and frustration.

 

Upstairs is a troll whose world he is about to destroy.  Maybe.

 

Hours later, Rufioh comes downstairs and knocks on the storeroom door.  Karkat is awake, but doesn’t move from the cot.  He hears the door scrape open, and moments later Rufioh is sitting down on a crate nearby.

 

“Hey…how’d you sleep?”

 

“Not well,” Karkat admits.

 

“I’m sorry…the matches can get pretty exuberant…”

 

“No, it wasn’t that,” Karkat says, sitting up.  “Listen.  I’m sorry for not saying so earlier, or whatever.”

 

Rufioh sits forward a little, looking serious.

 

“I knew Tavros,” Karkat says.  “I met him at Dionysus Park.  He saved me and my…friend, I guess, from splicers.  He was a good troll, a fucking decent individual.”

 

“Karkat…what are you telling me…?”

 

“We were looking for a place called Persephone, supposedly some kind of high security prison.  My friend’s brother is there, and Tavros wanted to come along to find Kankri.  But we were in Cherub Futuristics when it was attacked.”

 

Rufioh puts a hand to his mouth.

 

“I’m sorry,” Karkat says.  “We tried to save him.  But he’d swallowed too much water.”

 

“Oh…” Rufioh says.  “I see…”

 

 Karkat goes quiet.  Rufioh curls his hands into fists on his knees, eyes held shut.  He tries to control his breathing, but stands up suddenly, with a low growl.

 

“You’ve…you’ve gotta be lying…there’s no way that Tavros would do something that stupid…he’s not…daring…he’s not the kind of troll who would chase after something…”

 

Rufioh is shaking Karkat’s shoulders, eyes blazing.

 

“No, fuck!  Stop it, Rufioh!  Just calm the fuck down!  Maybe Tavros wasn’t that sensitive!  I don’t fucking know!  I’m not making this shit up!”

 

“You have to be!…Tavros isn’t dead!…He’s still at home, alive!”

 

“Fuck, if you don’t believe me, why not just call him up!”

 

Rufioh drops Karkat and runs upstairs.  Karkat follows after, listening as Rufioh fumbles with a phone behind the bar.  He stands at the top of the stairs, and watches.

 

“Hello…?  Tavros, please pick up the phone…Please, Tavros, just be home…Please…Tavros, please don’t be dead…Don’t…”

 

After a few minutes, Rufioh hangs up.  His shoulders are shaking, but Karkat doesn’t have any right to comfort him.  Rufioh takes out a glass and pours himself a shot.

 

“This…this doesn’t mean anything…” he says.  “Maybe he’s just not home…”

 

“He’s dead, Rufioh.  I dragged him through the ocean trying to get to air.  We didn’t make it in time.  I’m sorry.”

 

Karkat leaves Rufioh by the bar, returning to the cot.  He blows out the lamp and curls up under the blanket.  Sleep comes to him, but he dreams of drowning.

 

 

***

 

 

Kappa is awake.  She is standing, and he is standing.  He is standing in a metal room, the drip of water, the clank of pipes everpresent.  She is behind a glass screen.

 

“You’ve grown strong, Kappa,” a voice says.  “You came back from the brink of death, and drew deep of life.  Were you one of my flock, in a previous existence, I might have sent another in your stead.  But the masters who rule over this place require strength, and that is what I had to supply them.  One life for many: that is the law we have been forced to abide by.  Now, show them your strength, that we may live on, and carry your memory with us.”

 

Kappa remembers this voice from before.  He remembers it came from a radio.

 

_“The anguish of the poor fuels the people’s rage.  Their blood boils for justice.”_

From two doors on opposite sides of the room, four large white chessmen enter.  They carry clubs, and mean to harm Kappa.  He knows this through some buried instinct, and assumes a stance of preparedness.  They approach cautiously, as if waiting for some signal.  A buzzer sounds.  Kappa jumps.  The chessmen charge, all at once.

 

There are cheers and jeers.  The upper areas of the metal room are bars, behind which others watch.  They wear identical uniforms, white and black striped overalls.  Some wave their fists through the bars.  Kappa does not listen to them.  They become white noise.  The nearest truncheon becomes the focus of his world.

 

He grabs and moves.  He hears the crunch of baton on carapace as he swings one assailant at the others.  His disarm fails, but he is no longer surrounded.

 

The white noise fades out.  Kappa is fast, and soon there are four broken carapaces on the ground around him.  He has two truncheons, and the doors open again and more carapaces run in.  He sweeps the first to reach him, smashing its face into a pulp.  He turns and shatters the arm of the second one.

 

He succumbs to the third wave, tired and dripping with sweat and blood. 

 

When he comes to, his arms are in cast, his left leg is in a splint, and she, beautiful angelic she (what is her name?  Who is she?  Kappa hates her because he doesn’t know) is injecting something red into an IV.

 

“That was well done, Kappa,” she says.  “Soon, when you have recovered, you will be prepared for the Protector Program.  Try to rest.”

 

Kappa looks around the infirmary wing.  He is sequestered by a curtain, but he can hear others.  He thinks again of who he is missing.  He knows they have horns.  He knows they are strong (how does he know that?  Why can’t he remember more?  What happened to him?).  He tries to speak.

 

“Hush,” she says.  “You need to sleep.  Your treatments will take quite a toll on you physically, so you need to be your best.”

 

He drifts to sleep.  He remembers a cracked pair of shades.

 

 

***

 

 

Karkat wakes up with a start.  The storeroom is dark, but not so dark that he can’t see his hand in front of his face.  He sits up and stretches.  Despite the nightmares, he feels rested enough to start his search again.

 

_“We need to get arrested.”_

Had Dave somehow gotten himself blackbagged in the past couple days?  If so, Karkat was wasting his time walking the streets.  He needed to get to Persephone as directly as possible.  He stands up, cracks his neck, and exits the storeroom.  Upstairs, he finds Rufioh still at the bar.  The place is otherwise empty.

 

“Hey…” Rufioh says.

 

“Hey,” Karkat replies.

 

“I went to Dionysus Park this morning…I had to check for myself…” Rufioh starts.

 

“Let me guess: you found an empty apartment.”

 

Rufioh nods.  Karkat sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

 

“I can’t believe it…but he’s gone…I always thought, he’s just so unsure of himself, he’d never do anything to put himself in harm’s way…even though it killed me that he had such self-esteem issues…at least he’d be safe…”

 

“For what it’s worth, which is admittedly not fucking much, he seemed to have gotten over those by the time we met him.”

 

“I’m glad…” Rufioh says.  “At least he had that…”

 

“Hey, Rufioh, this might be a bit much to ask,” Karkat says.  “But I don't have any other options.  Have you ever heard of a place called Persephone?”

 

Rufioh is quiet for a while, considering.  Karkat almost gives up learning anything when he answers.

 

“Yeah…Seems like that’s a familiar sounding name…who was it I remember mentioned it?”

 

Karkat waits with baited breath.  Rufioh sighs and shakes his head, causing Karkat to deflate.

 

“I’m not thinking of it…can’t stop thinking back on Tavros, but I know I know that name from somewhere…Tell you what, it’s Christmas, and the bar’s closed, so why don’t we go looking together…?”

 

“If this is because of Tavros,” Karkat says.

 

“Well, yeah…This Persephone place…I want to know what it is, and maybe see why it was worth Tavros getting himself killed for…If that’s all the same to you…”

 

“I tried to stop Tavros from coming with us, but he wouldn’t fucking listen.  I’ve kind of given up warning people off coming with me on risky adventures.”

 

Rufioh gets up and grabs a jacket from behind the bar.  He shuts off the lights, and the two trolls exit into the city.  They walk the glass tunnels for a while in silence, Rufioh leading the way.  They pass by a few chessmen, and a human or two.  All human-run shops are closed for the day, with signs advertising, ‘Day-After Sales!  Holiday Clearance!  New Year’s Savings Here!’  Karkat is losing his patience when they pass by Ms. Paint's Arts & Crafts.

 

“Okay, where the fuck are we going?”

 

“There’s someone I want to find…I’m almost sure they’re the one who told me about Persephone…”

 

“Fantastic.  Who is it, or is it too soon to ask?”

 

“Chill, little man…” Rufioh says.  “He’s a guy I met once a year ago…probably doesn’t even remember me, but I’ve seen his face around…”

 

Apollo Square is bedecked in tinsel and lights, red and green banners hanging on the walls.  By the bistro on the lower level, Rufioh spies who he’s looking for.

 

“There he is…”

 

Karkat looks to where he’s pointing.  A small crowd has gathered around a cart being run by a purple-clad clown.  People line up for plasmids, but as Karkat watches, no matter how much they beg they only ever walk away with one, ‘on the house’.  It’s a more orderly display than he remembers seeing at establishments selling ADAM of any variety.  Rufioh gets in line.

 

A half an hour later they’re at the front, the crowd having thinned considerably.  Still, people hang around like vultures circling.  Whatever power the clown has over them appears to fall off with distance.  Karkat pretends not to hear a small fight break out across the square.

 

“Hey…” Rufioh says to the clown.

 

“Hey, motherfucker,” the clown replies.  He gazes off into space over Rufioh’s shoulder.

 

“I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we crossed paths here about a year ago…”

 

The clown’s eyes slowly slide back into focus.  He looks at Rufioh, and his eyebrows shoot up.

 

“Of course I remember this motherfucker right here!  Come here, brother,” he pulls Rufioh into a tight hug.  “You were the one all givin’ me a boost of confidence when I was at my lowest.  Can’t forget a thing like that, can a motherfucker?”

 

Rufioh manages to wiggle out of the hug.

 

“Yeah, well I’m glad you didn’t…that makes this easier…”

 

“And how can I be servin’ your fine fuckin’ self, and your short little mutant blood brother?”

 

Karkat growls, but Rufioh holds him back.

 

“My friend here is lookin’ for someone he lost…”

 

“Motherfuckin’ tragedy, right there,” the clown shakes his head sadly.

 

“And I was wondering if you could help us…see, the place we’re looking for is pretty hard to find…”

 

“Shit, my brother, why didn’t you say you needed a guide?  I up and know all manner of paths around this here town.  But I can’t fuckin’ leave my stall.  Tell you what, you go find my brother-by-another-mother-grub, tell him old Gamzee is what motherfucker sent you, and he’ll help you out.”

 

“Where can we find this guy?” Karkat asks.

 

“Ain’t gonna be easy, owin’ to his being a reclusive fuck.  But if you head on over to Artemis, that’s where he’ll make himself known.  Like some kind of mysterious motherfuckin’ dude.”

 

Rufioh thanks the clown, and he and Karkat leave.  Artemis Suites is within walking distance of Apollo Square, but they stop for a bite to eat before going.  They are tired, and hungry.

 

“Shoot, it’s a good thing this place is still open…” Rufioh says.

 

“I still don’t get what this whole Christmas thing is.  Is it some kind of stupid human holiday?”

 

“Yeah, something about how a fat guy in a suit crawls down their fireplace at night and leaves boxes in their respiteblocks or something…I never got it myself, but it seems harmless enough…”

 

“Fat guys in suits?  That sounds like fucking breaking and entering to me.  Jegus, no wonder humans are so universally terrible, if they have holidays celebrating felonies.”

 

They eat quickly, and manage to catch a streetcar going to Artemis.  In the court, they find a mime sitting at the base of the stairs leading up.  The place is otherwise devoid of life.

 

“Hey, asshole,” Karkat says to the mime.  “You seen any guides around here?”

 

The mime looks up at Karkat impassively, holding two sock puppets.  One of the puppets is of a black chessman, and the other is of a black chesswoman.  The chessman holds a knife and the chesswoman holds a fencing sword.  Karkat feels really stupid for asking a mime for directions.

 

“Fuck, we don’t even know what we’re looking for,” Karkat says.  “Can we go back and wring that clown’s neck until he gives us something more to work with?”

 

“I don’t think we should do that…” Rufioh cautions.  “But I agree that some more pointed directions would have been nice…But from what I remember, Gamzee’s always been kind of vague about important things…”

 

Someone taps Karkat’s shoulder.  He jumps and turns quickly to see the mime looming over him.

 

“What the fuck!?  Give me some more warning next time you sneak up me!”

 

The mime has a sock puppet of a purple clown on one hand, which he points to with the other before feigning curiosity.  Karkat stares at him blankly.  Rufioh catches on first.

 

“Oh!…Yeah, we were sent here by a clown just like that…his name’s Gamzee, and he said you could help us find someone…”

 

The mime signs at them rapidly.

 

“Uh…I’m sorry, I couldn’t catch that…” Rufioh frowns.

 

The mime signs again more slowly.

 

“Okay, no, fuck this,” Karkat says.  “Just nod or shake: can you take us to Persephone?”

 

The mime nods.

 

“Great!  Now we’re getting somewhere.  Lead on then.”

 

The mime shakes his head.

 

“I think he wants us to pay him, maybe…?” Rufioh says.

 

The mime nods.

 

“Of course he does.  This is Rapture.  Alright, what do you want from us?”

 

The mime signs very slowly.  Karkat just stares at him blankly.

 

“Oh, uh…I think he wants to make puppets of us…” Rufioh says.  “Right…?”

 

The mime nods.

 

“Are you fucking serious right now?  How long does a puppet take to make?” Karkat seethes.

 

The mime holds up eight fingers.

 

“Fine, whatever.  Make your stupid puppets, and then let’s go.”

 

The mime gestures for them to follow him.  He picks up his hat and puppet bag and leads them into the boiler room.  Karkat can’t help but feel like he is about to be murdered, but the mime simply turns on the light, revealing a sophisticated sewing area tucked away in a corner.  A sewing machine sits on top of a desk, with open drawers full of thread spools and cloth patterns.  The mime pulls up a pair of stools, and directs the two trolls to sit.

 

“Oh, Karkat look over there…” Rufioh says, pointing to a stack of cardboard sets leaning against the wall.  “I think he used to have a puppet booth before…”

 

“Wait, are those backdrops of Rapture?” Karkat squints at them. 

 

“They’re so well-made…I wish I had that kind of talent…” Rufioh says.

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.  That is some truly impressive craftsmanship.”

 

The sets are exquisitely painted scenes of distinctive locales throughout the city.  Karkat recognizes Apollo Square, and what might be the Tribune tower sticking up somewhere further down the stack.  The mime sets to work at his machine, cutting fabric into shapes. 

 

A few hours later, Karkat is dozing in his chair when the mime pokes him awake.  He holds a puppet version of Karkat in one hand, manipulating its arms and head with his long fingers.  Its button eyes are black, and it wears a flatcap like the one Karkat had lost.  In the mime’s other hand is a Rufioh puppet, with floppy felt horns and his bartending apron.

 

The mime plays out a scene.  Puppet Karkat walks up to Puppet Rufioh, arms flailing.  Puppet Rufioh makes a weeping gesture, causing Puppet Karkat to pat him on the back.  They shake puppet hands and wave at Karkat and Rufioh before disappearing into the mime’s bag.

 

“Ha ha ha…That was fun, I’m sure kids will love that…” Rufioh says.  The mime signs in response.  “Woah, not so fast, I can’t understand you…”

 

“Hey, now that we’ve sat around here wasting the day, can we get started on finding this place?  I at least am in a hurry.”

 

The mime nods.

 

They set out on their journey by descending a flight of stairs to an electric tunnel.  The mime has put on a beret and a nondescript grey jacket.  He signals them to follow him along the pipes, past twists and turns, to what eventually turns into a power relay station.  Careful not to trip any switches, they make their way past it.  The machinery clanks loudly at regular intervals, the noise covering their footsteps.  Karkat doesn’t like that this means they won’t be able to hear anyone approaching.

 

They take another tunnel, this one sloping down ever so slightly.  Electricity hums in the cables snaking along the sides, clicking at spliced junctures.  The mime leads them to another relay station, a bigger one with a sign on the main switching terminal reading, ‘Mason Quarter – Power & Pressure Controls’.  The mime goes down a ladder to the lower level, where pistons pump seawater into a cooling system.  Down a passage is a bulkhead door.  The mime signals for them to be quiet, before opening it.

 

Past the bulkhead is an air filtration unit.  The whir of fans makes Karkat call to question the need for quiet, until he hears the echo of voices somewhere in the area.  The mime ducks into a side-passage, Rufioh and Karkat quickly following behind.  Two engineers, both humans, walk by, talking in low whispers that nevertheless carry on the turbulent air currents.

 

“Second time this month.  I swear, why are they piping so much air down there anyway?  There’s nothing there.”

 

The mime climbs silently up to the ceiling, bracing himself against the passage sides, and sneaks out like a spider after the humans.  Rufioh makes to stop him, but when he catches up the mime has already clubbed the humans to death.  Karkat gags at the scent of human blood, and backs away.  The mime gestures for them to follow, hands still dripping red.

 

They pass the filtration unit, and reach a small vent.  The mime signs to Rufioh.

 

“So, if you follow this vent, you’ll get to a place deep under the city…Which might be what you’re looking for…” he says.  The mime nods.

 

“Well, that’s where I’m going then,” Karkat says.  He takes his crowbar and pries off the vent cover, crawling inside the cramped airway.  “Rufioh, you coming?”

 

“No, man…My horns are too wide for that space…Besides, I’ve been cooking up a little scheme in my thinkpan…Maybe our guide here will help me get out of here in one piece?”

 

The mime nods, signing slowly.

 

“Okay,” Karkat says.  “Oh, hey Rufioh.  If you see a blonde human with red eyes named Dave, tell him that he’s an idiot.  Also, tell him where I went.  Because if I can’t find him down there, I might need him to bail me out of trouble again.”

 

“Can do, little man…” Rufioh says, flashing a smile at Karkat.  He and the mime turn around and head back out the way they came.

 

Karkat sighs, and looks back down the vent shaft.  It’s dark, and narrow, and he thinks he can hear fanblades spinning somewhere in its depths.  But the mime said that Persephone was at the end of this tunnel, so Karkat steels himself for the descent.

 

 

***

 

 

Kappa is standing again.  Before him is his daughter.  She wears a bright orange smock with matching ribbons in her hair, and carries a large syringe in her hand.  She is beautiful, and pride swells in his chest as she skips toward him.

 

“Hello, daddy!  Let’s look for angels!”

 

Through the glass faceplate of his helmet, he can see the angelic nurse that looked after him, a small troll with nubby horns wearing a red pull-over, and a black chessman in a fine suit, calmly watching him.  Kappa hates them all, who kept him from his daughter for so long.  But his daughter is happy, so he will not kill them today.

 

He follows her out of the metal box, and down a glass tunnel.  The tunnel is suspended over black ocean, with stars stuck to the outside.  His daughter skips ahead, singing a little nonsense song.

 

_“Mr. Bubbles, Mr. Bubbles, are you there?  Are you there?  Come and bring me lollies.  Come and bring me toffees.  Teddy bears.  Teddy bears.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No word on when Chapter 13 will be up--this week is going to be extra busy.
> 
> Hm. Yes.


	13. You Always Hurt The Ones You Love

It’s the talk of the town.  Gossip flies through the phone lines and pneumos at breathtaking speed.  The Rapture Tribune for once is not silent on the matter.  Even in hiding, John is kept fully abreast of the situation.  He watches the television screen with interest, the surveillance network more or less fully intact, as a pair of seadwelling trolls stroll regally through Fort Frolic.

 

Meenah Peixes has made an appearance in public.  And she has _not_ caused an outrage.

 

John sighs.  He’s going to have to attend that party now, and there’s no wriggling out of it.  He’d rather hoped that Jane would have reappeared by now, but as Boxing Day dawned and set she remained absent.  He busies himself with work and New Year’s preparations, but he keeps thinking back on what she said.

 

Spades couldn’t be trusted any longer.

 

John sighs, glancing at the window nearby.  He is being kept in a bulkhead bunker—neither in Hephaestus nor anywhere else, but just as connected to the pulse of Rapture as his office.  It’s certainly less comfortable, but John finds that not having the obligation to attend meetings allows him time.  Time to think, time to relax, and time to plan.

 

He has exactly one ace in the hole against Spades.  He almost used it when Jane came into his office, but held back just then to see how his head of security would react to his story.  Things would have gotten messy if Spades had suspected anything.

 

The pneumo in the corner of the room hisses and shudders.  More correspondence.  John takes it, glances over it, and tosses it onto the desk in the middle of the room.  He is anxious—for Jane, for the ball, over this whole mess with Spades.  He needs to be…dealt with, but John has few enough allies to take on the task.  He needs Jane back. 

 

He goes over to his desk and picks up the phone.

 

“I’d like you to bring me Ms. Pyrope, please,” John says into the receiver.  “No, I don’t need a guard.  She’s pretty secured, I’m meant to understand.”

 

Terezi Pyrope is brought into the bulkhead office bound to a chair.  John dismisses the two chessmen carrying her, waiting until the door is shut and locked before examining her.  She is bruised.  Her glasses are gone, and her suit looks wrinkled and filthy.  She shivers a little, eyes resolutely on the ground, and John can’t tell if it’s because of cold or if she is laughing quietly.

 

“Terezi Pyrope,” he says.  She spits at his feet.

 

“Well, if it isn’t the H1GH 4ND M1GHTY John,” she says, voice hoarse.  “To what do I owe this honor?”

 

“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” John says.  “I understand you like to make deals.”

 

“Quite correct,” Terezi replies, slowly lifting her head to look John in the face.  Her eyes are red and useless.  She is blind.  “BUT 1 DON’T KNOW 1F 1’M F33L1NG 3SP3C14LLY COOP3R4T1V3 TOD4Y.”

 

“Dear god!  Did Spades do this to you?” John asks, aghast.  Terezi laughs.

 

“He kept saying he didn’t like the way I looked at him after our ‘sessions,’ and wanted to teach me some kind of lesson.  I thanked him, because now I don’t have to look at his ugly mug ever again!”

 

John looks away from her while she continues to snicker.  His plan is becoming more and more difficult by the minute.

 

“What if I told you I could let you go?”

 

Terezi pauses. 

 

“I’d say you’re going to have to give me more than that,” Terezi says.  “Talk is cheap!  You would have to prove to me that you meant it, and TH3N I would consider playing along.”

 

“Okay,” John says.  “How can I prove to you that I mean it?”

 

“You have a secure phone?”

 

John nods, and then remembers that Terezi can’t see him.

 

“Yes,” he says.”

 

“Bring me the receiver,” she says.  He complies, and she tucks it under her chin.  “Now, dial 8-888-8888.”

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose in mild exasperation, but dials the number.  After a few moments, Terezi starts talking.

 

“Vriska!  You’ll never guess where I am!  Go on!  Guess!  Nope!  Good try, though.  I’m in the office of John Egbert himself!  It doesn’t smell like plush carpet, though, so I’m guessing it’s not his usual office.  Is that so?” Terezi is grinning, all of her teeth sharp and gleefully glinting.  “My my, that’s quite a change of fortune, isn’t it?”

 

John frowns at her.  He doesn’t like the tone of her voice.

 

“Well, I’d ask him, but I don’t think he’d find it as funny.  Here, would you like to speak with him?”

 

Terezi jerks her head at John, indicating that he should take the receiver.  John picks it up.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Joooooooohn!  Long time no see!” a familiar voice cackles into the phone.

 

“What do you want, Vriska?”

 

“Oh come on, John, I’m not that self-centered.  It’s not about what I want—it’s about what we can do for each other.  Now, I understand you have my lawyer in your grip.”

 

“Yeah,” John says.

 

“I propose a trade!  My lawyer…for dear sweet precious Jane!”

 

John’s heart stops.

 

“Where is she?” he demands.

 

“Under my care, of course!  Much like my lawyer is under your care.  Now what do you say?  I’m a very busy woman, John, and I haven’t got all day!”

 

“Put Jane on the phone,” John says.  “I want to speak with her before I agree to anything.”

 

“Suit yourself!”

 

There’s a brief period of silence over the phone, and then a commotion.  John hears shouting, and then Jane’s voice comes over the receiver.

 

“John!  I…need…help.  She…ran me through…”

 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Vriska says.  There’s more commotion over the line.

 

“What did you do to her?” John demands.

 

“Oh, nothing serious, don’t worry.  You’ll have your little detective back right as rain just as soon as you give me back my lawyer.”

 

John looks at Terezi, who is staring off into space with a mad grin on her face.  She appears to be sniffing the air.

 

“Alright, but we’re going to have to be discreet about this,” John says.  “As I’m sure you already know, given how you coerced Jane into helping you before, I don’t have an abundance of trustworthy people surrounding me.”

 

“John, John, John, of course I know about that!  Who do you take me for?  Just get her to my private little cove, and leave the rest to me.  I don’t care how you do it!”

 

There’s a click and the line goes dead.  John hangs up the phone, hands curling into fists.  Terezi snickers a little more, and John picks up the phone again.

 

“I need an able guard.”

 

An hour later, John stands in the cove beneath Hephaestus.  A single chessman escorts Terezi.  John made sure that no one else would be able to follow them.

 

“Thank you, that will be all,” he says, pulling out a revolver and shooting the guard in the back of the head.  Terezi falls forward as the guard releases her.  John puts the gun away and looks around.  The sub is gone, but the winch and phone are still in place.  He picks up the phone.

 

“Vriska?”

 

“No, not quite!” a voice answers brightly.

 

“Aranea.”

 

“Yes, you’ve got it!  Sorry, but Vriska can’t come to the phone right now.  Would you like me to take a message?”

 

“Tell her I’ve got Terezi in the cove.  Either she brings me Jane within the hour, or we revisit the deal.”

 

“Alright, I’ll pass that along,” Aranea says, hanging up.

 

Twenty minutes later, the water in the pool starts bubbling, and a bathysphere emerges, bobbing up and down.  The winch lowers, grasping the submersible by its top hook and lifting it out of the water so that its door is even with the quay.  There’s a hiss, and the hatch opens.  Vriska steps out, alone.  She carries a cutlass, and her eyes sweep the area once before turning to face John.

 

“Where’s Jane?” John demands.

 

“Weeeeeeeell, awkward thing about that,” Vriska says.  “I li8d!”

 

“What?”

 

“I have no idea where she is,” Vriska clarifies.  “But I thought to myself, ‘you know what might come in handy some day?  Audio recordings of John Egbert’s sister!’”

  
Vriska produces an audio diary and hits the play button.  John hears Jane speaking, but the tape skips occasionally where it has been poorly spliced.  He grits his teeth.

 

“So this was a trick,” he says.  “What’s your angle, Vriska?”

 

He has drawn his gun, pointing it at the pirate’s heart.  Vriska, in the blink of an eye, knocks his gun aside with a flick of her sword.  It falls into the water with a splash.  The point of the sword is an inch from John’s throat.

 

“John, if you wanted a caliginous fling, you could’ve just said so,” Vriska mocks.

 

“What do you want with me, Vriska?” John asks again.

 

“Insurance!  Things are getting awfully dangerous out there, you know,” Vriska grins, fangs showing.  “What with pirates, gangsters, and revolutionaries threatening the whole order of things.  It seems like I’m the only one who cares about that sort of thing anymore, though!  You’ve done a pretty decent job alienating every single person you knew, and now look where you are?  Alone, at sword-point in a secret harbor where no one can hear you scream.”

 

“I wouldn’t count on that, Miss,” a voice says.  John and Vriska both turn to see Spades Slick standing by the entrance to the cove.  He is flanked by black chessman armed with Thompson submachine guns.  “Masterfully done, boss.”

 

John narrows his eyes at Spades, but doesn’t respond.  Terezi sits on the beach and laughs.  Vriska’s smile broadens.

 

“Slick!  What a lucky surprise!”

 

“Lucky for me.  Not for you,” Spades growls at her.

 

“Don’t you know, Slick?  I’ve got allllllll the luck!”

 

“You make one more move and I put a bullet in your precious lawyer’s brain,” Spades says.

 

Vriska shrugs, dropping her sword and putting her hands up.  The chessmen move forward, securing Terezi, and then John and Vriska.  Vriska is led away by armed escort while Spades stays behind with John.

 

“Good timing, Slick,” John says.

 

“That was some smooth talkin’ you did back there,” Spades says.  “Convincing her to come all the way out here.”

 

“We wouldn’t have caught her otherwise,” John says.  “She would’ve escaped a direct attack.”

 

“Didn’t know you were such a good actor,” Spades continues as if John hasn’t spoken.  “For a moment there, I thought you were actually convinced you’d be getting your sister back.”

 

“Come on, Slick,” John scoffs.  “It was an obvious trap.”

 

“You didn’t think so,” Spades says softly.  Johns fists clench.  Spades approaches him slowly, hands relaxed at his side.  “You came straight here.  You even shot the poor bastard who carried the lawyer bitch.  You didn’t want anyone to know what you were planning, or that you knew this place existed.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“No, don’t be like that.  You were doing so well,” Spades has backed John to the edge of the quay.  “Who would’ve thought that the famous John Egbert actually kept contact with the one person left in the city he swore to hunt down?  Clever ruse, boss.  Very clever.”

 

“You’re out of control, Slick,” John says.

 

“No, you’re the one who’s out of control,” Spades hisses.  “Putting your sister on the case, covering her tracks, consorting with pirates.  You’ve been a hard man to look after, but here’s the thing: step out of line one more time, do anything except run your little power plant, and you will see dear sweet precious Janey again exactly one last time.  Got me?”

 

“You don’t run things around here, Slick,” John retorts.

 

Spades doesn’t answer.  He simply points back toward the entrance to the cove.  John waits a moment, but walks where directed.  He hears a smashing sound when he reaches the armored door leading out, and turns to see Slick smashing the phone and button console with a crowbar.

 

 

***

 

 

After an hour’s descent, Karkat stops by a vent grating.  It’s the first one he’s seen in a while, and the smell wafting up from it is rancid, like putrid waste, rust, and rot.  There’s a chemical tang to it as he tries to not breathe it in.  He crawls swiftly over to the grating and looks down.

 

Below him he can see a metal floor in an empty room.  It looks like the middle of a cellblock.  In the corner of one cell, a dead troll lies, bloody glass shards scattered on the ground.  Karkat very nearly throws up at the sight.

 

As he watches, a klaxon sounds, and the prison doors click twice and slide open.  A dozen prisoners file out, ignoring the corpse, and line up.  After a moment, a guard comes in.

 

“We got another floater!” he shouts to someone outside when he spies the corpse.  Two more guards come in and lift the troll up by the shoulders and feet.  They quickly carry the body away.  The prisoners file out after, with the first guard at the rear.  The block door locks.  Karkat moves on from the scene, not wishing to push his luck by dropping in while the guards are out.

 

At the next grating he can see another cellblock, this one empty as well.  Eventually Karkat finds a grating that looks down into a kind of arena.  Inmates scrub at the floors, which are stained red, while guards look on.  None of the prisoners have blonde hair, so Karkat keeps crawling.

 

One grating shows him a floor-level view of a large room with an enormous bay window.  The water outside is black, but he can see lights illuminating a submersible.  Guards stand around the area, talking in low voices as prisoners are periodically led out of the cellblocks to either an infirmary, or some far wing of the facility that Karkat can’t see.  Karkat sees a large map posted nearby bearing the title, ‘Fail-Safe Industries North Detention Wing’. 

 

All the guards, Karkat notices, are chessmen.  The inmates, by contrast, are all humans or trolls.  They all look down at the ground as they shuffle past in their white and black striped jumpsuits, but Karkat doesn’t see many blonde humans and none of them are Dave.  He peers back at the map, trying to see if there’s some kind of warden office.  A pair of black chessmen walk past.

 

“Got the report from Egbert’s office.  We’ve got the go-ahead to produce two dozen more alpha series protectors.”

 

“And where does he expect us to get the inmates from?  They’re all in gene therapies.  Who knows what kind of weird genetic bullshit they’ve got?  Alpha series conditioning doesn’t play well with splicers.”

 

“Well it’s not up to me, is it?  Just make it happen.”

 

Karkat draws a sharp breath; one of the chessmen is the Dignitary.

 

 _“Let me make one thing clear, Doctor:_ your _job is to play shrink to the rich and famous._   My _job is to protect the interests of Egbert Industries.  If that means shutting down your psychotherapy racket, then so be it.  Do we understand each other?”_

_Kankri is silent for a long time.  Karkat wants to throttle the presumptuous little chessman standing before him, but the guns trained on him keep him seated.  Finally, the other redblood speaks._

_“I’ll make you a deal.  Your kind understands that language, I think.”_

_“Well sure, I never said I was the unreasonable type of thug.”_

_“I’ll back off Egbert Industries,” Kankri says.  “I’ll submit to however many inspections you feel necessary, but I cannot close my practice.  There’s too much at stake.”_

_The Dignitary considers the terms._

_“Not good enough, Doctor.  We both know inspections can be dodged.  You need to give us something more—a guarantee of your compliance.”_

_Kankri’s hands curl into fists on his knees.  Karkat fumes.  What else could they possibly have to offer?_

_“Take Karkat.  He’ll be my collateral.”_

It would be so simple for Karkat to just shoot the Dignitary right then.  Get revenge for six years of misery and confinement.  But the other guards would hear, he’d be captured, and any chance of saving Dave would vanish like smoke.  Nevertheless, he puts it on his to-do list once he’s sure Dave is safe.

 

He shadows the chessmen as best he can through the air ducts, but loses track of them when they enter the infirmary.  Six ducts open before him, and the one he chooses takes him far away before more gratings appear.  One of them overlooks an office full of filing cabinets.  After checking to see if the coast is clear, Karkat carefully lifts the grating and drops down into the room.

 

The first thing he does is check to see that the office door is locked.  He draws the blinds over the window so that any passersby won’t see him, and turns to the cabinets.  He sighs—searching through so many archives in such a short interval is becoming tiresome—but rolls up his sleeves and opens a couple of drawers.

 

The first obstacle he encounters is that none of the prisoners have names anymore.

 

The second obstacle is that none of the prisoners are organized by species.

 

At the very least each file has a picture and dossier, with accompanying redactions and omissions.  Karkat slams one of the drawers shut, suppressing a frustrated scream.  How the fuck was he supposed to find a specific inmate if he didn’t already know their serial number?

 

He reads the placards on each of the drawers, hoping to glean some useful information.  Many of them are labeled ‘Gene Therapies, Batch #X’.  Karkat is horrified by the sheer volume of plasmid test subjects contained in the cabinets—the batch numbers run up into the low hundreds.  It would take him entirely too long to search through all of them.

 

One cabinet has drawers labeled ‘Protector Program, Series Y’.  So far there are only two series: Alpha and Beta.  Maybe he would have better luck starting with the smaller pool and eliminating it.  He openes the first drawer, labeled ‘Series Alpha,’ and pages through files.

 

The subjects submitted to the protector program have different designations than the normal inmates.  For some reason they’re all labeled different Greek letters.  At the tenth file, Karkat pauses.

 

Subject Kappa.  The photo is of a strikingly familiar human with unruly blonde hair.

 

“No fucking way,” Karkat breathes.  He quickly takes the whole folder, sitting down with his eye on the door in case someone tries to come in.

 

“Subject Kappa…admitted in August, so he was here four months…hand-selected for the protector program for his unusually refined combat prowess…superlative performance in the trials pushed him into the Alpha Series…difficulties with the treatments…he was assigned a little sister several days ago and released on active duty.”

 

Karkat looks back at the photo.  It can’t be anyone except Dirk Strider.  Karkat is sure of it.  Under the photo of Dirk is another photo of a man in a diving suit, presumably also Dirk.  He holds a drill, and his symbol is displayed on the back of his hand.

 

The knob on the door to the office rattles.  Karkat quickly shuts the cabinet drawer and climbs up on top of it to reach the vent.  Keys shake and turn in the lock when Karkat struggles inside.  The door opens just as Karkat replaces the vent grating, but now he can’t move for fear of making too much noise.  There are voices in the office.

 

“It seems our oppressors are forcing us to offer up new sacrifices to their industrial killing machines.”

 

Karkat recognizes Kankri’s voice instantly.

 

“Shall I draw from the gene therapies division again?” a cool female voice replies evenly.

 

“It’s that, or betray another of our patients.  I really don’t see what else we can do.”

 

“Subject Epsilon still bothers you.”  It wasn’t a question.  Kankri sighs.

 

“Yes.  But they were adamant that he be submitted to the program.  There was nothing I could do.  He was the strongest inmate we’ve seen to date, after all.”

 

“It’s acceptable for you to feel remorse,” the woman says.  Karkat can see through the grating a faint glow from by the door.  Kankri, still wearing that infuriating red sweater, although it’s now faded and stained with what he hopes is grease, moves to sit at the desk.

 

“Until we can find a way out of this situation, I would have to disagree.  Remorse gets in the way of our important work.”

 

Karkat feels a stab of fury at that pronouncement, and kicks open the grating.  Kankri almost turns around in surprise, except that Karkat drops into the room gun drawn.  He holds the barrel to the back of Kankri’s head.

 

“Is that what you thought when you fucking sold me out?”

 

There’s an angered hiss from behind him, and a strong hand grabs his arm, jerking the gun aside.  Karkat drops it rather than pull the trigger, but he’s quickly immobilized by a glowing troll with asymmetric, pointed horns.  Karkat snarls at her, and struggles to get at his crowbar.

 

“Karkat?”

 

Kankri is looking at him with a mixture of awe and confusion.  Karkat continues growling.

 

“Kanaya, you can put him down,” Kankri says.  Kanaya has a hold of Karkat’s wrist, and twists it threateningly before releasing him.  Karkat rubs it while glaring at her.  “I thought you were gone.”

 

“You fucking wish, don’t you?” Karkat sneers.

 

“Karkat, how can you say that?  We are bound by ties of blood—nothing will change that.”

 

“Didn’t fucking stop you from offering me up to that assguzzling Dignitary, did it?”

 

Kankri falls silent.  Kanaya keeps a sharp eye on Karkat.

 

“Yeah, I was gone alright: gone to the Drop for six fucking years, just so you could keep playing the people’s hero in your goddamn artist’s retreat.  _Six Years_.  Six years of my life gone because of you.”

 

“Six years that I spent saving the lives of hundreds,” Kankri says.  “I truly regret that such a step had to be taken, but I’d hoped you would understand that what I did, I did for the greater good.  The measures I’ve taken to improve the lot of the trolls of this city were indispensable.”

 

“Measures?  What fucking measures?  I’ve been to Dionysus Park.  You know what it’s become?  A goddamn carnival of horrors!”

 

“What has become of Dionysus Park is the result of the same oppressive elements that confined you to the Drop, and that imprison me here.  But let me ask you, Karkat: _why_ are you here?  You’re not a prisoner, you’re not a guest, you’re not a citizen, you’re certainly not here on business, and yet you appear to have come of your own volition.”

 

“I’m looking for someone.  If I’d had my way, I would never have laid eyes on you ever again.  You sicken me.  I can’t believe I ever thought someone like you was actually have been worth giving a damn about.  I thought when we came down to Rapture we could make a new life for ourselves, together, as a _family_.  That’s what you said, remember?  But that never mattered to you at all!”

 

“Karkat that isn’t true,” Kankri says.  “Family is all that I have worked to build down here: an intentional family, united by interest in the common good, striving to undo the injustices inflicted upon us by human society.  I’ve tried at every turn to nurture those connections that keep us together.”

 

“Like you did with me when you banished me to the Drop?  Like you did with Tavros?”

 

Kankri sighs.

 

“I tried to explain to Tavros about my vows of celibacy.  I take it then that even in my absence the lesson did not take?”

 

“Tavros is dead, you unsympathetic self-aggrandizing fuckwhiff,” Karkat growls.  “He died looking for you, because he still thought you were worth something.  You fucking threw that aside.  He was a decent troll, and I would’ve been proud to have him in my family.  But no, you had to keep playing messiah to the people, and now he’s dead.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kanrki says.

 

“Why the fuck are you apologizing to me!?  You should be apologizing to Tavros!  Or to Rufioh!  He had a family, too, and fuck you very much but I had to be the one to deliver the news!”

 

“I understand that you’re upset, Karkat,” Kankri says.  “But this isn’t the time or place to indulge in your histrionics.  Now I need to get back to work, or someone will start asking awkward questions.  You shouldn’t stick around for long—they clean this place every few hours or so.”

 

“Doesn’t fucking look like it,” Karkat says quietly, glancing around at the slimey floors and walls.  Kankri searches through the desk, collecting a stack of folders in his arms.  Kanaya hisses when Karkat moves to pick up his gun, in response to which he growls and flips her off, retrieving the firearm in spite of her.

 

“I think that’s everything,” Kankri says, straightening up.  “Good luck on your search.”

 

“Wait,” Karkat says, holding an arm out to catch Kankri.  “Please, I have to know.  Was there an inmate here recently—the past couple of days recently—with blonde hair and distinctive red eyes?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Kankri says.  “If he was apprehended recently he wouldn’t be in these files.  He’d be in the holding block.  It’s just down the hall, if you want to look for yourself.”

 

Kankri pauses at the door, his hand on the knob.

 

“Karkat,” he turns.  “It may seem as though I’ve abandoned you, that I don’t care, that what I do is to boost my own ego, but that’s not true.  I don’t know what happened to you, but if there is any way that I can help, I will do what I can.  We are still family.  The blood that flows in my veins is the same as yours, and no bond can be stronger than that.  Someday soon, my captors will no longer rule here.  On that day, I encourage you to join me.  There are many here that need to be healed, physically and emotionally, and I am only one troll.  We can build a new world from the bottom up, starting here.”

 

“Kankri, I would rather drown myself in radioactive sewage than join you,” Karkat spits.  “I only care about finding my stupid human, and then getting the fuck out of here.  You can take your new world and shove it up your nook.”

 

“Alright.  I’m sorry to hear you think that, but I understand.  I forgive you, and I hope one day you can extend me the same privilege.”

 

Kankri opens the door and leaves.  Kanaya glares at Karkat one last time before following him.  The door shuts with a snap, and Karkat heaves a sigh of relief.  He was worried that his erstwhile cousin would raise the alarm.

 

 _Which isn’t to say he might not still do that,_ some part of Karkat thinks.

 

He sneaks to the door and peaks out into the hall.  The corridor is narrow, and a sign on the wall pointing left indicates the holding block.  Karkat cautiously sneaks down the corridor in that direction, frequently looking over his shoulder in case he is followed.  He reaches the holding cells, and pulls open the heavy iron door sealing them shut.

 

A cacophony of shouts and yells hits him.  Almost like zoo animals, the inmates are at the bars of their cells rattling them, jeering at Karkat as he walks by, throwing anything they can get their hands on at him.  He looks and looks, but none of them appear to be Dave.  He gets halfway around the block when he gets caught.

 

“Oi!  Who’s that?” he hears someone shouting from the cellblock entrance.  He looks back and sees a pair of guards.  He draws his gun and shoots at one of them, the bang lost in the hubbub.  He strikes one guard in the thigh, causing him to collapse.  The other guard draws a baton and runs forward.  Karkat’s gun jams at that moment.

 

“Fuck!”

 

He dashes further into the cellblock, past screaming prisoners until he hits a dead end.  He holsters his gun and draws out his crowbar, ready to take on the guard.  When the chessman rounds the corner, Karkat strikes, swiping at his head with the blunt end of the tool.  The guard misses the parry, falling toward a nearby cell.  The inmates grasp at the chessman’s limbs, trapping him.  Karkat ignores his cries of pain as he runs back to the door.  He spares a quick glance into the cells as he passes them.

 

_Not Dave.  Not Dave.  Not Dave.  Trolls.  Not Dave.  Definitely not Dave.  Where the fuck is Dave?  Not Dave!  Why isn’t Dave here?  Not Dave!  Not Dave!  Not Dave! Not Dave!_

Karkat reaches the beginning of the cellblock, half tempted to turn around and look again.  The incapacitated guard has passed out in a pool of blood, but Karkat can hear shouting from the corridor.  He pulls the door shut and locks it with the guard’s keys.  He looks up and sees a vent grating, within easy reach of one of the cell walls.

 

Karkat approaches the bars.  Several hands reach out to grab at him, but he slaps them with his crowbar.  He quickly scales the bars, jamming his foot between them for balance so he can reach the vent grating.  He smashes it open just as the door’s lock clicks open, and scrambles inside amid a hail of gunfire.  Two points of fire erupt within him, but he dashes along the vent as quickly as he can, not stopping to assess his damages.

 

He pauses at the next grating to see the guards running ahead, shouting to search the vents.  Karkat hisses when he tries to move again.  Two grazing shots, thankfully, but he’s still bleeding a lot.  He looks through the grating and spies a locked door labeled Examination Rooms.  Making sure the coast is clear, he jumps out of the vent shaft and smashes the lock.

 

The examination rooms look disused for the most part, except for the large boxes of diving equipment lying around.  Karkat shifts one of the boxes in front of the door of the ward.  That might buy him a couple of seconds.  He searches nearby cabinets for bandages for his wounds, but comes up empty.

 

“Fuck, where the fuck do they keep the fucking gauze?  Fuck!”

 

Karkat tears a strip off a bed sheet to wrap around his waist, ignoring the bright red stain welling up underneath it.  He moves down the ward.  To his right, glass overlooks a black abyss.  He turns a corner and finds more beds and more boxes, but a door leading to a glass tunnel.

 

Karkat steels himself and opens the door.  The tunnel is dark as pitch, so he keeps his hand against the glass as he walks.  Behind him, spotlights light up an exterior sign, ‘Persephone Detention Center’.

 

“It lies below indeed,” Karkat scoffs, turning back down the tunnel.  He’s discouraged.  Dave wasn’t there.  He is still in Rapture somewhere.  But how the fuck was he supposed to locate one elusive blonde human?  Maybe he should talk to Rufioh again.  Rufioh seems to know a lot of people.  Maybe they could find Dave for him.

 

He reaches an elevator after about ten minutes, and ends up in a machine area.  Nearby is a strangely shaped vent—almost like a very tall keyhole made of brass and a little bench at its base.  Karkat walks over to it, and thinks he can hear childish giggling from inside.

 

 

***

 

 

Professor Jade Harley is in her office tending to the plants when there’s a soft knock on the door.  She frowns.  Her colleagues have gone home, and the park is closed.  There shouldn’t be anyone around, except for maybe the odd Saturnine, and they wouldn’t bother to knock.

 

“Who’s there?” she calls.

 

“Jadey, can I come in?”

 

Jade dashes over to the door.  Could it be…?

 

“Roxy!” Jade exclaims.  “Where’ve you been?  I’ve missed you!”

 

She throws her arms around Roxy, hugging her tightly.  Roxy pats her on the back.

 

“Listen, I need a favor.”

 

Jade releases her and invites her in.  They sit in uncomfortable modern chairs while Jade pours them each a steaming mug of tea.  Roxy has a briefcase with her.

 

“This sounds like a work-favor,” Jade says, taking a seat.  “Shoot.”

 

“More like a peer-review,” Roxy clarifies, coughing.  “I’ve, uh, cut ties with my former place of work in a pretty sudden manner, and I didn’t know who else to turn to that might understand and also not snitch.”

 

“I’m glad you could trust me,” Jade says with a smile.  “What’s the problem?”

 

“I’ve been developing a Formula,” Roxy says cryptically, opening up her brief case and handing Jade a sheaf of pages.

 

“Sounds intriguing,” Jade says, taking the papers and looking over them.  Her eyebrows climb up her forehead until they are lost in her bangs.  “Roxy, your formula…kills the ADAM slug?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“I don’t get it.”

 

“I’ve been stealing girls from Egbert Industries,” Roxy says.  “Killing protectors and taking care of the little sisters in a safe place.  But that’s not good enough.  Even if I undo their conditioning, I won’t be able to suppress their need to seek and harvest ADAM.  I need to get rid of that slug first.  That’s where you come in.”

 

“You want me to review your notes before you test it on any of them,” Jade says knowingly.  “That’s a frightening prospect.”

 

“No less frightening than brainwashing a bunch of six-year-olds?” Roxy counters.

 

“Well, no, but if this formula fails…”

 

“Please, it’s the Formula.”

 

“Fine,” Jade rolls her eyes.  “But if your Formula fails, the girls will definitely die, right?  That’s not a risk you ran into with the mental conditioning.”

 

“That’s why I need your help,” Roxy presses.  “I’ve got to fix them, and if this Formula has a chance in hell of working, I want to be absolutely sure before I try it on one of them.”

 

“Well, I don’t know how we can test this in the lab,” Jade says.  “But we can try synthesizing some of these components.”

 

“I’ve got a slug on me, as it so happens,” Roxy says, taking a glass jar out of the brief case.  “Had Cronus snatch it from the docks.  We should be able to run some tests on this puppy before throwing him back.”

 

“You realize if this works, we’ll probably kill the slug.”

 

“Yeah, probably,” Roxy concedes.

 

Jade stands up and grabs her lab coat from its hanger.  She rummages in her closet for a spare to give to Roxy.

 

“Let’s do some science,” she says.

 

 

***

 

 

Jane sits reading the latest Tribune.

 

_SPECTRES OF 1959_

_-Porrim Maryam_

_As New Year’s Eve appro+aches, many o+f yo+u are no+ do+ubt lo+o+king fo+rward to+ the future.  Ho+w easy it is to+ fo+rget the turmo+il o+f the past, in the face o+f such a bright visio+n!  Rise, Rapture, but do+n’t lo+o+k back!  That is the battle cry o+f Jo+hn Egbert, and all o+f his patriarchal asso+ciates and sto+o+ges.  Just wait until midnight!  The carriage will remain a carriage!  The rio+ting will sto+p!  The White Knight will disappear!  Splicing will beco+me safe and affo+rdable again!  Leave yo+ur tro+ubles at the surface, and embrace Uto+pia!_

_O+nly a co+lo+ssal fo+o+l will lo+o+k ahead and see pro+sperity.  Rapture is in freefall.  What will yo+u be do+ing when we hit ro+ck bo+tto+m?_

 

The submarine Jane boarded took her to Neptune’s Bounty, whereupon she dodged Vriska’s thugs and escaped back into the city.  She had absolutely no intention of being in hock to that pirate again, least especially now when Spades Slick appeared to be growing bolder.

 

“His game with Snowman is approaching the endgame.  But what’s her move?”

 

The way Jane sees it, New Year’s Eve is when everything comes to a head—if nothing happens to John or Egbert Industries, then Slick wins.  She still has no idea what Snowman is planning, but strongly suspects that Meenah’s debutante ball is at the center of it.

 

“John will be in attendance,” she says into Rose’s AudioVox.  “Meenah will be there, it’s her ball.  Feferi will be there.  All of the greatest movers and shakers of Rapture will be there.  If someone wants to topple the established order, there’s no more inviting target.  But what’s the move?  What does Snowman gain by throwing Rapture into chaos?”

 

Jane absently flips through the paper, thinking aloud.

 

“If it’s primarily a contest between Snowman and Slick, then it would make sense for Snowman get rid of John.  But without Feferi, then Rapture might as well roll over and die.  John’s not the most important person in the city, but it _is_ in his interests to have someone like Feferi.  So they’re both targets.  But what is the point in just destroying Rapture?”

 

Jane stares at an advertisement for Incinerate! without really seeing it.  She’s out of her league with this one.  Thinking too small.

 

“What kind of person would just pick up a teenaged heiress and induct her into her gang?  Someone who doesn’t care if they get hurt.  Meenah doesn't seem to care if she gets hurt.  Snowman is playing with fire.  But why?  What’s the payoff?”

 

She thinks back, trying to come up with something she can use, some sort of inspiring detail she overlooked.

 

_Behind the scenes there were hidden forces at work that I’m trying to understand._

Jane remembers Rose’s last telephone message to her.  Hidden forces.  Snowman wasn’t very well hidden, for all her shadowy maneuvering.  The White Knight is frustratingly elusive, but he’s at least somewhat public.  Vriska’s gang is common knowledge, as is the Midnight Crew.

 

“Who or what could be more hidden than all of these pieces?”

 

Feferi?  There would be even less point in her destroying Rapture.  It would explain why she tolerated a clearly volatile heiress, but then Jane’s impression of the woman was that she tended to see the best in people.

 

“Augh!  When one has the entire ocean to hide in, one needs never to be found!” Jane curses to herself.  That’s when she remembers: the police report she read when the Midnight Crew stormed Cherub Futuristics.

 

_Shots fired in the atrium, heavy fire from weapons-grade plasmids…Holdout in the CEO’s office…Caliborn pinned down in his office…Caliborn’s cronies dispatched…Caliborn’s office stormed…heavy machine gun fire…Caliborn neutralized…Kill unconfirmed, but at this time Caliborn is presumed dead._

“Oh my god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, we're almost there.
> 
> And then...
> 
> ...
> 
>  
> 
> ....
> 
>  
> 
> .............New Year's Eve!


	14. Ten 'Til Midnight

_Meenah:_

She stalks out of her closet and slams her hands on the marble sink in her bathroom.  Gold bangles wrap around her wrists, but she tears them off and throws them across the room.

 

“Fuck, come on girl, you got this.  You can do this.”

 

She glances at her clock.  She has an hour to get ready.  One last hour before there’s no turning back.  Meenah can hear Feferi moving about the suite, talking loudly on the phone to mask her near constant surveillance of Meenah’s room.  Like the camera she’s installed in the corner over her bed wasn’t obvious.

 

Meenah looks at her reflection in the mirror.  Her curls are unkempt, she hasn’t started on the makeup regimen Feferi drilled into her on the moment she returned home.  Frankly, the idea of dolling herself up is disgusting.  That’s not how _this_ Peixes rolls.  Nevertheless, she grins as she picks up her lipstick off the counter.

 

One way or another tonight is her big night.  One hour can’t pass by quickly enough.

 

_Feferi:_

She is the first to arrive at Demeter’s Banquet Hall, which is to say, she is the first woman of consequence to arrive.  The place is packed already with tycoons, socialites, blue bloods, bohemians and the odd aristocrat.  The band strikes up a merry jig when she descends the stairs to the floor, all topaz and pink polymers.  The important thing is that it _looks_ like silk, and she smiles broadly at everyone in sight.

 

“Feferi, good to see you,” John says.  He is standing at the foot of the stairs, looking somewhat grim.  “How is Meenah?”

 

“She’s fine,” Feferi replies.  “A tadpole nervous, acshoreally.  But I’ve been giving her strict lessons, so at the very least she won’t ruin the evening with her antics.”

 

“Still, best of luck,” John raises a glass of champaign.  Feferi takes one off a nearby tray and toasts.

 

“To Meenah,” she says.  “Let’s hope she keeps everything under contrawl.”

 

_Eridan:_

He finds Feferi at the edge of the dance floor talking animatedly to a pair of dandy gentlemen.  He clears his throat, causing her to turn.  Her smile is radiant.

 

“Eridan!  Glad you finally made it!”

 

“I’vve been here a wwhile, Fef,” Eridan says, stiffly.

 

“Oh!  Whale, I didn’t sea you,” Feferi frowns.

 

“Maybe ‘cause I wwas a bit nervvous and didn’t wwant ya seein’ me just yet?” Eridan says uncertainly.  He holds something behind his back, which Feferi notes.  She also notes the purple blush creeping up his gills.

 

“Oh, Eridan, you didn’t,” she begins.

 

“Noww, it ain’t nothin’ like that,” he says quickly.  “Just.  Happy Neww Year, Fef.”

 

He presents her with a small bouquet of peonies.

 

“I wwanted to make amends,” Eridan says.  “Wwe’vve nevver really been on the best a terms, but hell, it’s a neww year.  Wwhat do yah say, Fef?”

 

Feferi accepts the bouquet, pausing to smell the flowers.  She grins at Eridan.

 

“Alright, since you were so charming.  We can start over.”

 

_Porrim:_

She wears an elegant black gown with matching lipstick and earrings.  Elbow-length black gloves adorn her arms, and she takes a moment to adjust her fashionable coif.  She is never out of reach of her AudioVox.  Porrim Maryam stands at the base of the stairs, talking with colleagues.

 

“I fully expect that Meenah’s going to make a disaster of the whole thing,” she says.  “You mark my words.  Just because she seems to have reformed doesn’t mean she isn’t every bit as wily as her caretaker.”

 

“What, you think she’s planning on sabotaging the Foundation?” another reporter guffaws.  “The very idea!”

 

Porrim doesn’t dignify him with a rebuttal.  She watches the goings on of the rich and famous with a predatory eye.  She spots affairs and scandals almost as they occur, and if she weren’t here to lambast the Peixes heir, she would have no shortage of gossip to sell.  She clicks her tongue in disgust.

 

“Do you think these people realize that their days are numbered?” she asks a nearby waiter.

 

“Madame?” the chessman asks, worriedly.

 

“Come on, you’re valet to the wealthy and privileged,” she presses.  “Tell me what you see when you look at these…people.”

 

She gestures over the crowd.  The waiter gulps.

 

“I see finely dressed gentlemen and ladies dancing…”

 

“No, don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear,” Porrim snaps.  “It’s disgusting.  These aloof morons just dance and drink like the whole city isn’t about to collapse around their ears.”

 

“With respect,” the chessman says meekly.  “If that’s true, then what can anyone do about it?”

 

“I intend to survive it,” Porrim says.  “What about you?”

 

“Well, I don’t…”

 

The orchestra changes songs abruptly.  Everyone in the hall stops talking or dancing, staring around in confusion until a spotlight strikes the top of the stairs.  Meenah Peixes, grinning like a shark, descends slowly.  She is dressed in a sleek, form-fitting black dress with pink stripes down the sides, gold dangling from her wrists, her ears, around her neck, in her hair.  Porrim can practically hear the fashionistas at the Chic collectively dying of shock.

 

“At least we’ll get a show before it all goes to Hell,” Porrim quips to the waiter.

 

_Kanaya:_

She removes a pair of rubber gloves and drops them in the nearest bin.  The infirmary remains dark except for the pale glow she emits, and a lamp on the desk by the door.  She sits down and pulls out an AudioVox.  Kanaya clears her throat, and talks evenly into the device.

 

“Another three patients expired today.  That’s on top of another dozen subjects we received today for the gene therapies division.  Every day it feels like more and more of the city hemorrhages off into this place—I wonder if someday everyone will be down here?  Doctor Vantas assures me that soon we will be free of our captors, and then our real project may begin.  He wishes to remake the world into the image of Utopia.  I wonder if our captors would tolerate the few liberties they’ve granted him if they knew his plan?”

 

Kanaya puts the AudioVox into a desk drawer, turns off the desk light, and makes her way over to the staff dormitories.  All personnel in the detention facility live on-site, necessarily, and she has a small room to herself at the end of a long corridor. 

 

But first she stops by Kankri’s room.  She finds him reading a book she had lent to him concerning the torrid affairs of a group of trolls working in the same division of the Alternian Ministry of the Exchequtioner.  Kankri closes the book with a snap when she enters.

 

“I see you’ve finally started that book,” she says, smiling.

 

“Yes.  It’s fascinating,” Kankri says, blushing slightly.  “I find the interplay of power between government finance and wholesale slaughter endlessly interesting.”

 

“Of course,” Kanaya says.  “Had I known you were interested in reading about defunct authoritarian regimes, I would’ve lent you my treatise _Post-Scratch Alternian Governance for Assholes_.  Should I take my book back and fetch it?”

 

“No, that’s quite alright,” Kankri says quickly.  “I’m sure there will be time for that later.”

 

“Alright then.  I’ll wish you good night and leave you to your reading.”

 

“Good night, Kanaya.”

 

Kanaya’s room is tiny, no larger than a broom closet.  A record player on her bedside table plays the best of Eartha Kitt while she readies herself for sleep.  Colorful drapes hang from the walls, framing a mirror and a few photographs.  She fondly touches a picture showing herself at a younger age at the beach in Marseilles with her cousin and her then-matesprit.  She sings along to the record as she brushes her short hair.

 

_I’ll find you in the morning sun, and when the night is new_

_I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you_

_Kankri:_

He finishes off a chapter and puts the book aside, picking up the AudioVox from his desk and pressing the record button.

 

“Tomorrow is the dawn of a new era.  Perhaps a kinder era than the dark times that produced this place, but intimately connected with it.  All that was set in motion before continues like a machine gaining momentum, greased with the blood of all those poor souls offered up like sacrifices at the altar to its base drivers.  But we can always choose: to allow ourselves to be sacrificed for the good of one—one empress, one president, one founder—or to join the people’s rise.  We can tear the machine apart, bring it to a crashing halt.  We, together.  One family united by blood, not divided by it, or blind to it.  The Rapture Family.”

 

_Nepeta:_

Big Nep Leijon sits at the bar in the 13th Muse.  In her hand she has a drink.  Her eyes are bloodshot, and her mouth hangs open a little, as if it’s too much effort for her to try and close it.  In her lap is a brand spanking new pistol.

 

She tosses a dollar on the bar and gets up to leave, gun in hand.

 

“Just the one tonight, Nep?” the barkeep asks as she goes.

 

“Last one fur a while, I think,” she says, pausing.  The barkeep notes the gun.

 

“Probably good for you to carry one of those.  It’s dangerous out there.”

 

Nepeta nods and exits the bar.  Outside the bar, in a glass tunnel suspended high above the ocean floor, she checks that there’s a bullet in the chamber before walking quickly into the neon glare of the city.  Somewhere in that bright jungle, there’s someone who hurt her very deeply.  She intends to find him before the night is over.

 

_Rufioh:_

He sweeps the floor by the bar, waving to the last of the patrons as they leave.  It’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s closing up early rather than throw some kind of celebration.  When he finishes, he hangs up his apron, locks the register, and puts on his coat.  His thoughts go back to Karkat.  He really hopes the little redblood manages to find his human.

 

Rufioh walks through the city with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, eventually ending up at Dionysus Park.  The New Year’s parties are in full swing, but Rufioh isn’t in the mood.  He ignores all the grasping, needy hands of revelers trying to pull him into their fun and goes straight to the park.  The park is unlit, except for a number of paper lanterns strung up in the trees.  Rufioh goes to the edge of a pond and kneels down.

 

“Rest in piece…Tavros…”

 

He places a fiduspawn plush and an audio diary on the ground next to the water.  He stands up and turns.  By the entrance to the park, staring at him, is a human holding a sword.  Rufioh can’t make out the details of their face, but he can see the slight blue pulses of electricity running up his arm.  He can see, by the light of the carousal, a faint halo of blonde hair.

 

The human turns and runs out.  Rufioh calls after him, but when he throws open the park doors the plaza around the carousal is empty. 

 

_Karkat:_

He never thought he’d be doing this, but then that’s not news.  Karkat holds a full syringe of ADAM he scrounged off a few corpses while trailing after any Big Daddies he managed to spot in the few days since his escape from Persephone (no sign of Subject Kappa, but Karkat isn’t troubled).  He stands before the Gatherer’s Garden.  A bright, childish voice admonishes him at regular intervals.

 

“My daddy is smarter than Einstein, stronger than Hercules, and lights fires with the snap of his fingers!  Are you as good as my daddy, Mister?  Not if you don’t splice at the Gatherer’s Garden you aren’t!  Good daddies get spliced at the Garden!”

 

Karkat puts his syringe into the slot, and watches as it whooshes into the machine through some sort of pneumatic device.  He selects the Hypnotize plasmid.  A few minutes later, a bright green vial drops into the slot at the base of the machine, accompanied by the cheery ding of a bell.  Karkat pockets the plasmid and turns up his coat collar.  It’s more important than ever that he find Dave, and soon.

 

_Dave:_

He watches from a high ledge as a wide-horned troll walks through Dionysus Park.  Except for his haircut, he’s the spitting image of Tavros.  Dave follows behind, intrigued and a little suspicious that the hallucinations are finally catching up to him.  Except for a narrow miss at the park, the troll has no idea of Dave’s presence. 

 

The Tavros-doppelganger enters an apartment complex.  Dave curses, but jumps from his gallery vantage and lands a gut-wrenching second later next to the door to the building.  Without even really pausing to think, he throws the door open and walks inside.

 

Someone grabs him from behind.  He’s momentarily stunned, but teleports out of their grip.  He reappears a few feet in front of them, sword leveled at their throat.  It’s the troll that looks like Tavros.  He holds his hands up.

 

“Woah…uh please don’t kill me…”

 

“What the hell, dude, don’t fucking jump a guy with a sword if you don’t want to get cut.”

 

“Well to be fair you were the one following me…”

 

Dave has to acknowledge that one.  He lowers his sword.

 

“Sorry.  You just looked like someone I thought was dead.”

 

“Oh…!  You’re…the human Karkat was looking for…”

 

“You know Karkat?” Dave asks.

 

“Yeah…Little guy comes by my bar asking for a place to stay…said he was looking for someone…a blonde human with distinctive red eyes…”

 

“Well, I’d say you’ve found him,” Dave says.

 

“He said to tell you that you’re an idiot…”

 

Dave looks at the ground.

 

“…And that he went to Persephone to look for you…we found a guide to take us part of the way there…”

 

Dave sheathes his sword.

 

“Can you take me there?”

 

_Jade:_

She wipes sweat off her brow, but looks at the results table in front of her approvingly.  Jade smiles brightly at Roxy, who is still examining slides at a nearby microscope.

 

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but it looks like The Formula might just work.”

 

Roxy looks up questioningly.  Jade hands her the table, which Roxy takes and looks briskly over.  She sighs with relief.

 

“That there is some good science,” she says.  Jade laughs.

 

_Cronus:_

He walks surrounded by chattering children, rifle slung over his shoulder.  He doesn’t hear anyone approach until a gun clicks behind him.

 

“Stop right there.”

 

Cronus turns slowly and sees Nepeta pointing a pistol directly at his heart.

 

“Girls,” Cronus says.  “Scram.”

 

Meulin is the only one who doesn’t immediately scramble out of the way.  She clings to Cronus’s pant leg.

 

“You too, Meulin.”

 

“But, Mister Cronus…” Meulin says, looking scared.

 

“I’ll be fine.  Just go.”

 

When Meulin is clear, Nepeta jerks at his rifle with her gun.

 

“Drop the gun,” she says.  Cronus slowly reaches up to the rifle strap.

 

“Please, don’t do this,” he says pleadingly.

 

“Shut up!  Drop the rifle!”

 

Cronus unshoulders the rifle and slowly puts it on the ground, sliding it a little ways away.  He remains crouched.  Nepeta watches him with wild eyes.

 

“Meow then.  Where’s Meulin?”

 

“Nepeta, you need to calm dowvn.”

 

“No!  You need to give me my daughter back!  You took her away and made her a monster!  Where did you send her?  Meulin!  Come back to mommy!”

 

“But wve’re trying to fix her!”

 

“Mister Cronus?”

 

Meulin is peeking out from behind a nearby bench.  Cronus looks over to tell her to leave.  There’s a shot, and Meulin screams.

 

_Roxy:_

She arrives back at the flat, and leans against the door with a tired sigh.  The flat is empty.

 

“Huh,” Roxy says to herself.  “Guess everyone’s out for a walk.”

 

She tosses her bag onto the couch, and goes into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water.  She wants to get started immediately producing enough of The Formula to fix the girls, but Jade had ordered her to go home and get rest.

 

“Doctor’s orders, Roxy!” she had said.

 

“Jade, I’m the doctor here.”

 

“You can’t become a professor without a doctorate, Roxy.  Now march!”

 

Roxy turns on the television.  New Year’s Eve specials on every channel, and most of them are re-runs of the same three Christmas movies.  She turns off the television after a few minutes and goes to put on a record.  There’s a soft knock at the door just after “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” starts up.  Roxy opens the door.

 

“Hello?”

 

One of the girls stands huddled on the doorstep.  She holds a doll with a baseball for a head.

 

“Miss Roxy!  Mr Cronus is in trouble!  Come quick!”

_Jane:_

The Felt Lounge is empty when she arrives, having threatened the bouncer.  The stage lights are off, and the barman is nowhere to be seen.  Jane takes out a torch and makes her way back to the manager’s office.  The leprechaun from before is gone.

 

Jane goes to the desk immediately, opening drawers and pulling out everything inside.  She tosses pencils, rulers and bullets onto the floor, looking quickly at any page she can get her hands on.  Revenue reports.  Inventory.  Newsletters.  Contracts!

 

“Got you,” she says, looking at the heading of a contract for one submarine from the English Submersible Disposal & Repair Company, for a 24-hour period starting the 31st of December 1959.

 

_Jake:_

He would love to be at some swank party, taking in the wine and the girls (if he ever finds out who sold the Rapture Chic on cerulean, he’s going to kiss them right on the mouth).  He is not.  Jake English is not at a party.  He can see a party just fine from where he’s standing, however, through the periscope in front of him.  A radio nearby relays the sounds of the orchestra picked up by microphones placed about the room.

 

“Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?” he asks, sweating profusely.

 

Behind him, Snowman narrows her eyes.  He swallows and grips the submarine’s controls more firmly.  The launch button for the torpedo bay is nearby.

 

“Ah, I had thought as much.”

 

If Jake English lives through tonight, he swears on his grandmother’s grave that he will never have any dealings with gangsters again.

_Vriska:_

The cell is damp, but then what part of Rapture isn’t, these days?  Vriska stands in the middle trying to ignore the insane cackling of her lawyer.  It grates against her nerves like rough sandpaper.

 

“Will you sh8t up!  I’m trying to think!” Vriska snaps.  Terezi simply laughs more.

 

Vriska growls, low in the back of her throat, and crosses her arms.  At _least_ they weren’t handcuffed any longer.

 

“Come on, come on,” Vriska mutters.  She’s waiting for the sign.  “It would be we get captured by the one gang with a pathological hatred of clocks.”

_Gamzee:_

He stands in Apollo Square by his cart, passing out balloon animals and honking horns at the passersby.

 

“Have a miraculous new year, motherfuckers,” Gamzee says, handing a balloon to a young couple.

 

He spies a familiar, big-horned troll coming toward him through the crowds.

 

“Hey, how’s my very best motherfucker this fine holiday night?”

 

“I need another favor: your friend, the guide, can he take us back to Persephone…?” Rufioh asks hurriedly.  A blonde human waits behind him, jumping at odd noises.

 

“Here, have a balloon,” Gamzee says, handing a balloon to the human.  “Motherfucker looks like you could use a little more mirth in your life.”

 

The human cringes away from the balloon at first.  He straightens, and accepts it with a silent nod.  Rufioh gives him a worried look.

 

“We might need to be quick about this…”

 

“All in good time, my friend,” Gamzee says.  “All in good time.”

_Kurloz:_

He is sitting under the stairs in Artemis like always.  There are footsteps in the court, rapid and heavy.  A familiar redblood appears in view, looking into the shadows beneath the stairs.

 

“Hey, you!  I need your help again!” the redblood says.  Kurloz offers him a puppet.  Karkat’s eyes go wide.  He rummages in his puppet bag as the redblood splutters.

  
“This is the fucker I’m looking for!  Where did you see him?  _When_ did you see him?  Fuck, you’re fucking mute, that’s right.  Where’s Rufioh when I need a fucking translator?  Okay, you seem to have a scarily canny knowledge of this city: can you help me find him?  Please, I just need to find him.”

 

The redblood has tears in the corners of his eyes.  Kurloz pays him no mind as he sets up a curtained backdrop.  He turns back around and holds up two puppets.  One of them holds a red paper balloon.

 

“Hey, that’s Rufioh and that fucking clown,” the redblood says.  Kurloz walks Rufioh up to Kurloz, flapping Rufioh’s arms in jerky animation.  He puts Rufioh down and takes the Dave puppet from the redblood.  The purple clown hands Dave a red paper balloon.  He picks Rufioh back up, and Dave and Rufioh get into a fight.  During the altercation, the balloon falls out of Dave’s hand.  Kurloz puts the puppets down and picks up the balloon.  He floats it up and up and up, pulling on the curtain over the backdrop with a dramatic flourish.  The balloon bobs around the ceiling of Apollo Square.

 

The redblood doesn’t pause to see the finish.  He runs.

_John:_

John checks his watch: ten minutes until midnight.  A microphone is set up by the enormous bay windows in the banquet hall.  The glare of the lights all but blocks out the ocean outside as John approaches the mic.  The orchestra finishes playing, and goes quiet.  John clears his throat.

 

“Hello, my name is John Egbert.  Fifteen years ago, I laid the foundations of this city with the help of some of the bravest, greatest, most talented people I’ve ever known.  Times have been rough for everyone, especially recently.  We’ve all had to do things…we might have found difficult, or unconscionable.  We’ve made sacrifices we regret.  I’m here tonight at an event that marks a new beginning—one of our most celebrated and loved citizens is stepping down, and naming as her successor her blood relative.  Feferi, I’d like to toast to your career, and hope that you meet the challenges of retirement with as much excitement as you have always shown in everything else.”

 

There’s applause, and Feferi, smiling broadly at John, raises her glass in response.

 

“And to you, Rapture, I raise my glass.  I recognize that I have made unpopular choices, and that a great many people have been hurt.  I apologize.  But I promise that this next year will be different.  The trials of 1959 are over.  Here’s to 1960: may it be our greatest year.”

 

John toasts the room, and drains his glass.  There is mixed applause, and a lot of hushed discussion.  Did any of them really just hear that?  John, giving a public apology?

 

“Now, I think that Meenah has a few things she would like to say to usher in the new year.  My few interactions with her have left me with a…distinct impression.  Without further ado, then.”

 

John steps aside while Meenah approaches the mic.  She glitters under the chandeliers, striding confidently through the crowd until she stands above everyone, commanding absolute attendance.

 

“Whale then,” she says.  “I won’t be up here long.  I just wanted everyone to sea me, so that I could say: Happy New Year, Suckers!”

 

There is a moment of silence, and then uproar.  Feferi is livid.  Eridan is outraged.  Porrim is beside herself.  John is ashen-faced.  Meenah looks from the people in the audience to John.  There is murder in her eyes.

 

With a loud burst, like a bomb exploding, the building shakes and the bay windows shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I was writing this, I began to realize just how much I was going to have to do in chapter 15, and how much I just don't have the time to commit to it. In that light, you're getting chapter 14 now so that it's not hanging over my head (just over yours), and you can expect chapter 15 sometime before the month is out.
> 
> Happy New Year, suckers.


	15. Happy New Year, Rapture

Jane is running through Neptune’s Bounty when she hears a stray line from a radio broadcast. She is on the docks, nearby to a small group of troll stevedores holding drinks and gathering around a portable radio balanced on a crate. The trolls take no notice of her as she approaches.

“—and our line to the Peixes debutante ball at the Adonis is cut off. Please remain in your seats, ladies and gentlemen, while we sort out this technical difficulty. We understand that John was just wrapping up his speech when the lines went dead, and what a way to send off 1959. This announcer never thought in all of his days he would hear something as monumental as a public apology from John Egbert.

“Wait a minute, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been handed a report. Oh my god. There was an attack on the Adonis Luxury Resort during John’s address! It’s unknown at this time what the scope of the damage is. An unknown assailant shot a torpedo into the side of the building…and, ladies and gentlemen, this is just incredible, but I’ve just been handed another report…a riot has broken out at the Kashmir Restaurant, believed to be the work of dissidents under the banner of the White Knight. My god. It’s happening all over the city. Don’t leave your seats, ladies and gentlemen, and don’t leave your homes. It seems the city is in an uproar. We will keep you up to date with the latest bulletins and—a bombing in Apollo Square!? Are we in the midst of a violent revolution? Stay tuned, folks. Jegus, this is unbelievable…”

 

***

 

Karkat stops for a moment to catch his breath at the edge of the square. A large crowd has gathered around the statue of the founder, balloons bobbing and banners waving wildly. The countdown begins while Karkat scans the area for a red balloon. 

“Where the fuck are you, you fucker, come on,” Karkat mutters.

_Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!_

Karkat pushes a few people aside and clambers up onto a bench, the better to see over the heads of the trolls and chessmen in front of him. The crowd is mostly chessmen, dressed in their festive pastels and silly hats. Karkat can pick out a few groups of humans here and there, and a few contingents of trolls around the periphery. He looks over by the bistro, where the clown was before.

_Six! Five! Four! Three!_

“Fuck this,” he snarls, pushing his way through the mass of bodies toward the bistro. It looks as though it offers a greater vantage of the surrounding area than a stupid bench, and so Karkat barely spares any time to apologize for treading on any toes. Serves them right for packing so closely in.

_Two! One!_

An earth-shaking rumble follows an ear-shattering blast nearly drowns out the exhuberant cries of, “Happy New Year!” Karkat is thrown forward by a hot blast of air and a heavy body, landing with a thump on the ground. There are screams, there are cheers, and people are stepping on him. He hears gunshots, and forces himself into a standing position, knocking over a panicked chessman in the process.

Behind him, the bench he was standing on is reduced to a smoking crater. Bleeding, broken bodies litter the street. Karkat’s ears ring as he surveys the scene dumbly. Chessmen dressed in white and flying red banners seem to pop up out of the ground and charge toward the statue in the center of the square. Karkat can see other clouds of smoke farther away. The bistro burns.

A red balloon floats up to the ceiling from the lower level.

Karkat fights his way over to the stairs down, slipping on the slick of blood staining the flagstones. The rebels are gathering around the statue, tossing ropes up around its neck, torso, arms. Karkat slides a little as he steps as gingerly as possible over the corpse of a human (please don’t be blonde please don’t be blonde please don’t be blonde), tripping and falling on his ass.

“Ow, fuck!” he curses, trying to stand up and being knocked over by a fleeing banker. He scrambles back up to his feet, hands stained red.

“Dave! Dave Strider!” Karkat calls, skidding to a halt at the top of the steps. “Dave! Where are you Dave? Dave!”

Karkat falls on the third step, tripping over a fallen body and landing with a thud at the bottom. He takes a moment to stare at the ceiling, dull glass and iron under all that black ocean. He gets up, and sees the plasmid cart. It’s tipped on its side, hypos and plasmids scattered everywhere, crushed and trampled. A few desperate souls greedily snatch up as many as they can and run, dropping hypos every few steps. The clown is nowhere to be seen.

“Dave! Dave Strider!”

“Karkat…!” 

Karkat sees Rufioh crouched behind the cart beckoning to him. He runs over, covering his head as chessmen throw rocks and Molotov cocktails at posters of, ‘John Egbert, Paving the Future!’ and, ‘Rapture’s Best and Brightest.’ Rufioh is crouched over the prone form of the clown, unconscious on the ground, purple blood pooling on the ground from a gash in his head.

“Rufioh, where’s Dave?”

“Karkat, what are you doing here, how did you get out of Persephone…?”

“Long story,” Karkat says impatiently. “Where the fuck is Dave?”

“I don’t know…! One minute he was there, and then there was an explosion, and I turned to look and he was just gone…!”

Karkat’s blood pusher stops.

“Fuck no. Fuck no! Dave! Dave Strider, get your stupid pale ass down here right now!”

Karkat stands up, looking around desperately for a shock of blonde, or a flash of sword. Nearby a pair of chessmen with pipes beat on a troll. With a shuddering crash, the statue of John Egbert falls to raucous cheers and a cloud of dust. On the roof of the bistro, a silhouette of a human stands out against the fire.

“Hey, leave him alone…!”

Rufioh is charging at the chessmen. They glance up in time for Rufioh to catch one of them in his horns. He jerks his head and throws the rioter into a nearby column. Karkat’s pistol is out before he thinks about it, and the other chessman is shot before he can take a swing at Rufioh.

“Shit…” Rufioh bends down to examine the troll. “Karkat, help me with him…Karkat…!”

Karkat runs toward the blazing bistro. He doesn’t take his eyes off the shadow on the roof. They’re human, they’re holding a long, thin shining object. Karkat skids to a halt when the heat gets too intense.

“Dave!”

The shadow’s head turns. It vanishes in a red cloud, and with a gut-wrenching snap Dave coalesces ten feet in front of him. His clothing is singed, and his mouth is set. He breathes raggedly and jerks his sword at Karkat.

“Karkat?” he asks.

“Dave, you lusus fucking moron, it’s me! Put the shitty sword down!”

Dave eyes him uncertainly, but takes a step forward.

“Please don’t be another hallucination.”

Dave’s voice is pleading. Karkat snaps.

“You fuckass! I have been turning Rapture upside down looking for you, you elusive shitscarfing maggot-festering nook-secreted scumfuck!”

The point of Dave’s sword falters a little. Dave chuckles to himself.

“You sound real enough,” he says. “Usually you would’ve disappeared by now.”

“What in the name of all that is unholy and terrible are you talking about?”

Dave laughs louder. The roof of the bistro collapses behind him, sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Dave drops his sword and strides forward. Karkat meets him in the middle, throwing his arms around the human as tightly as he can. He can feel Dave hesitantly returning the gesture. Karkat breathes deeply, taking in the scent of ashes, sweat and blood. Dave clenches his fists in Karkat’s jacket, muttering quietly.

Gunshot bursts fire. They break apart. At the top of the stairs, the rioters have gathered behind makeshift barricades. From a nearby tunnel, a cadre of Midnight Crew goons gathers with Thompsons and truncheons, showering the barricades with bullets.

“We have to get out of here,” Karkat says.

“I’ll clear us a path,” Dave says. Karkat frowns and grabs his hand before he can dive for his sword.

“You come back to me, alright? You fucking come back alive.”

Dave nods and vanishes. He grabs his sword and jumps away. Karkat drops down to a crawl, pistol out, and makes his way back over to the plasmid cart. Rufioh is nowhere to be seen, but neither is the clown or the injured troll. Karkat looks around for Dave, and spies the Metro entrance. Head ducked, he makes a run for it.

Three armed black chessmen emerge from the Metro, guns trained on him. Karkat stops, breath caught. There’s a series of snaps, and through a haze of red Karkat can see Dave, sword flashing, cutting the chessmen to pieces. He waves, and the two run into the station. There’s one bathysphere left. They jump inside, and Dave yanks the pilot lever.

 

***

 

Muffled bangs reverberate in her ears. Feferi’s eyes pop open. She breathes deeply of the ocean. It tastes like blood. In fact, that’s just from her mouth where she bit herself. She pushes a table off herself and stands up. Bodies float around the space of the banquet hall, the floor covered in broken glass and splintered wood. Feferi removes her shoes and swims up. Nearby, she sees Eridan, pierced by a shard of metal through the chest, eyes sightlessly staring ahead. She grimaces, and pulls the shard out. It will make a serviceable harpoon.

Feferi hears a low groan. Meenah digs herself out from beneath a fallen statue. Feferi watches her gain her feet, floating up over the carnage gently on the faint currents at the ocean floor. Meenah shakes herself a little, and then swims up to view the scene. She grins triumphantly.

“What do you think a that, chumsuckers?” she crows to the floating corpses. “How’s that for your grand New Year?”

Feferi claps slowly. Meenah spins around, shocked. The former head of the Beforan Foundation looks unamused.

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Feferi says. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to do ANYFIN as stupid and atrocious as you did. CONGRATULATIONS on your enormous TRIUMPH.”

Feferi slams the end of her iron shard into the flagstone floor, cracking it. Meenah snarls at her.

“Water you gonna do about it, seawitch?”

“Oh, probubbley just krill you,” Feferi says, examining her nails. Not too chipped.

Meenah stares at her for a second, and then darts off through the water toward one of the statues. Feferi gathers herself, launching after her retreating heir. Meenah gets there first, however, and snaps off the end of Neptune’s trident. Steel clashes against bronze, and two generations of Peixes snarl viciously at each other.

 

***

 

Roxy finds four of the girls gathered around Cronus, dresses stained purple. They whisper to each other furtively while looking down at the troll.

"This angel seems really sad."

"Do you think the angel knows where Mister Cronus went?"

"I'm glad the scary lady is gone. I bet the angel frightened her off!"

The sister holding the doll pulls on Roxy's hand to get her attention. Roxy stares stunned at Cronus, not seeing him.

"Miss Roxy?"

The other girls turn when they hear. They cluster around Roxy, purple hands dirtying her dress.

"Miss Roxy, where did the scary lady take Meulin?"

Roxy sighs, and kneels down.

"I don't know," she says. "But we're going to find out."

"Where's Mister Cronus?"

The sister hides behind her doll, as if scared Roxy will slap her for asking. Roxy looks over at where Cronus lies.

"The angels took him away, little ones," she says. Her eyes blur a little. "He's gone away forever."

"But who will take us on walks now?"

"Hush, little one," Roxy says, walking over and picking up the discarded rifle. "It's time to play a game."

"A game? We want to play! We want to play!" the girls cry out in a chorus. Roxy forces a smile.

"It's a game of hide and seek. Now, it's a special version," Roxy says before the girls can run off. She kneels down again, and they gather close, eyes wide. "Meulin already started playing. She's hiding, and you all have to seek her. When you've found her, come back and tell Miss Roxy where she is, so we can scold her for starting early."

"Okay!" five voices sing out.

"Come on, I bet I can find her first!"

"Nuh uh! I'm the bestest at seeking!"

The girls scatter, running toward two nearby key-shaped vents. Roxy sighs, and leans over Cronus. With two fingers, she shuts his eyes for the final time.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she says.

There’s a rustle behind her. Roxy turns, and sees the sister holding the doll standing there, shuffling her feet awkwardly.

“Aw, baby, what’s wrong? Don’t you feel like playing?”

She shakes her head vigorously.

“Miss Roxy? Can we go looking for more angels?” 

Roxy stands and dusts herself off.

“Sure, kiddo.”

 

***

 

English Submersible Disposal & Repair occupies a suite of rooms in a swank uptown office building. Jane stands on the steps before the art deco façade, grim determination in her stance. Behind her, tattered New Years banners lie in the street, and a fire burns in a nearby storefront. The mobs have already been this way. Jane grips her revolver and lets herself in through shattered French doors.

The lobby is dark, the floor dusted lightly with glass and bits of plaster. At the end is a trio of lifts, none of which work. Jane sighs and resigns herself to the emergency stairs. She flicks on her torch to light the way as she goes, ears pricked for any kind of noise other than her own footsteps.

A phonograph plays ‘Please Be Kind’ on a side table when she steps out onto the top floor. Her shoes sink a little into the plush green carpet of the atrium. A sign pointing down a mahogany paneled corridor reads, ‘Reception,’ and another corridor in the opposite direction leads to, ‘Conference Room,’ and, ‘Operations.’ Jane goes toward ‘Reception,’ arriving at a stylish waiting area. Behind the empty secretary’s desk is a door leading to the office of one Sir Jake English. Jane lets herself in without stopping to ask for an appointment.

“Nice office,” Jane whistles to herself, admiring the lavish décor. From the window, she can see chessmen in glass tunnels far below exchanging gunfire. She rifles through a few desk drawers and filing cabinets, trying not to think about the chaos raging outside.

“Transportation of rare artifacts to the Memorial Museum…I thought they’d closed that place? Jackpot: one sarswapagus. This has cherub written all over it. Hm…transport of Cherub Futuristics auction items to Memorial Museum storehouses. Expansion of Memorial Museum Xenocultural Exhibit wing. Why there? What’s so special about the Memorial Museum?”

Jane turns to the window and looks out toward Point Prometheus. Prometheus Tower is clearly visible through the murk, a shining gold and steel obelisk, at the base of which sits the Rapture Memorial Museum. The tower has been closed to the public for some time, although it used to house an expensive hotel, business offices, and even a division of Cherub Futuristics’ Gene Therapies Clinic. The museum was the last thing to shut down, citing some complicated safety concerns that had gone unaddressed for months. Jane frowns, suspicions aroused.

There’s a jangling of keys outside, and the rattle of a doorknob. Jane quickly ducks behind a bust as the door opens and Jake English steps into the room. He is tired, and downcast. He throws his jacket on a nearby chair and strides over to the liquor cabinet for a stiff drink. Jane waits for his back to be fully toward her before stepping out, revolver raised.

“Hold still,” she says. Jake jumps, nearly dropping his snifter of brandy.

“Jumping Jehosephat! Who the bloody hell do you think you are, sneaking into a bloke’s office at a time like this?”

“Inspector Jane Crocker, Private Eye,” Jane growls. “I’ve got some questions for you, Sir Jake English.”

“Dag nabit, let me get my bearings, won’t you?” Jake pleads a little.

“Sit down,” Jane gestures toward the chair by the door with her gun. “Leave the drink.”

Jake puts the brandy down carefully, keeping his hands up, and sits down on top of his coat. Jane remains standing in the middle of the room, eyes flicking to the door in case someone else decides to come in for a late-night meeting.

“You’ve been doing a lot of business around the Memorial Museum lately,” she accuses. “I’ve seen the contracts. I thought that place was closed down. What have you been doing up there?”

“Ah, well, you see,” Jake says, crossing his legs and leaning on the chair’s arm. “It’s not _quite_ as defunct as you might believe. Egbert Industry’s been running trials up there for the Protector Program, hence why we need to be on call to keep the place in good repair.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Jane snaps. “Transportation of Xenocultural antiques? Removal of machinery and equipment from Cherub Futuristics to the museum? That doesn't sound like the purview of a repair company, does it?”

“Ah, that is to say, no. No, it rather doesn’t,” Jake fidgets with his shirt collar. 

“I also pulled this out of a filing cabinet in the Felt Lounge, down in the steam tunnels,” Jane says, pulling out the folded contract. “You, contracting with them, for a submarine tonight. Then I hear on the radio that the Adonis has been torpedoed. Torpedoed! You don’t need to be an ace sleuth to put that one together, English. Now tell me: why are you making deals with The Felt?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Jake shouts. “You don’t know what it’s like! It was either help them out with a few errands, or…or…”

Jake rubs his throat unconsciously.

“Not good enough, Jake,” Jane says, advancing on him with the gun. “There’s a story in there somewhere you’re not telling me. Now start singing.”

Jake swallows.

“The Felt gave me the money to start up this business. I’m terrible at raising capital, but then a delightful little leprechaun approaches me out of the blue with an outrageous offer. I couldn’t pass it up! It was too good _not_ to take it! It was just little things at first: take a few artifacts here; don’t deal with certain enterprises. You know how it is! But then…the things they’ve had me do for them. I can’t even sleep at night anymore!”

“Things like what?” Jane demands.

“It’s just awful, Inpector! Once they have their hooks into you, you can’t escape!”

“Things like what, Jake? What did you do?!”

“I swear I wouldn’t have done it, but they were threatening me! Please, you have to believe me!”

“Shut up! Shut up right this instant!” Jane shouts. Jake clams up. “Right, now you’re going to tell me what you did that’s so awful, and we’re not going to have any hysterics over it. Are we clear?”

Jake nods, and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I had to pull the trigger. On the Adonis,” Jake says. “Snowman, she’s their leader, she stood behind me, and made me blow up the Adonis. All of those people, and John! They’re probably dead now, because of me.”

Jake looks at the ground miserably. Jane can barely hear anything else he is saying over the shrill screaming in her head, raising in volume rapidly. She doesn’t know what she’s doing: panic surges through her, and a desperate strength she didn’t know she possessed. The scream is tearing out of her throat. She has Jake by the collar. She’s shaking him like a ragdoll, not caring whether or not she hits him against the display of expensive Egyptian statuettes. She’s ignoring his protestations as she throws him to the floor. She’s aiming at him with her gun, his eyes are wide, his hands out in supplication.

She stops. She forces herself to calm down.

“You bastard,” she hisses at him, when the screaming has died down. “You deserve anything that they do to you.”

She turns and storms out.

 

***

 

The city slips past them outside the bathysphere porthole. Karkat isn’t looking outside at the view. His full attention is on the human sitting across from him: the twitching, blonde-haired, red-eyed human, just showing the first signs of ADAM decay. Karkat’s blood pusher swells with pity at the sight.

“Hey,” he says, scooting over so that he’s sitting next to Dave on the bench. Dave jumps when he does so, but relaxes after a moment.

“Sorry,” Dave mumbles.

“What’s the matter?” Karkat asks, taking the human’s hand and squeezing it.

“I’ve been…” Dave starts. “I’ve been…seeing things lately. And…and hearing things. It’s like I’m seeing shit other people saw already, and it’s hard to tell what’s real anymore. Fuck, you were right, I shouldn’t have ever spliced that first time.”

Dave covers his face with his free hand.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I spliced. I’m sorry I’m such a shitty excuse for a friend, or whatever it is I am to you. I’m sorry, Karkat.”

Karkat hugs Dave to him, making shooshing sounds and rubbing circles in his back.

“It’s okay, Dave. It’s okay. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it through this shitty-ass situation, get through this shitty-ass night, and then we’ll sit down, and come up with the worst, most think-pan-numbingly asinine plan ever conceived to get the fuck out of here. It will ascend to mythological status for its legendary awfulness. Historians will write of this plan with nothing but contempt. But first you need to calm down.”

Dave chuckles into Karkat’s jacket throughout. He sits back up, wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Thanks,” he says. “Knew I could count on you to lift the mood.”

“That’s the service I provide to this fucked up relationship,” Karkat snips back, smiling wryly.

“Which brings us to the next item on the agenda,” Dave says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “What exactly is this relationship? Because I’m going to be honest here, shit is getting a bit too real for ‘just friends’ anymore. Can you help me out here, Karkat?”

Karkat rolls his eyes.

“Oh, right, you had a human schoolfeeding program that utterly and comprehensively failed to educate you in the most basic of troll customs and social mores. Fuck me,” Karkat sighs, exasperated. “It’s been a grub’s age since I’ve had to explain this to someone. Troll society has developed over the years a complex and integrated approach to romantic and social interactions, which helps dictate our relationships to each other and to non-Trolls.”

“I don’t need the OED version, thanks. Just the Reader’s Digest, please,” Dave says.

“Fine, but only this once, and only until we get the fuck out of Rapture,” Karkat scoffs.

“I appreciate it.”

“So Trolls have quadrants, one for each of our romantic relationship: flushed, pale, ashen, and pitch. Respectively, sexual attraction based on pity and vulnerability, platonic interaction based on balance and restraint, platonic mediation of two unruly parties, and sexual attraction based on contempt and rivalry. Got that?”

“Not a bit, but go on, I want to see where this is going,” Dave says.

“Well, what I feel for you,” Karkat says, breath hitching. “I don’t know what it’s like for humans, but for Trolls it means something when you have someone with you. Someone who protects you when you’re in danger, and does things like break you out of self-destructive cycles, or calm you down when things get…too much to handle. Someone who does that for you, and who you can do that for in return. And I just feel, after everything we’ve been through, that even though you’re a stupid human who probably thinks it’s weird and doesn’t understand the first thing about it. That maybe we could…I don’t even fucking know.”

Karkat is staring at the floor of the bathysphere, back hunched. Dave is sitting next to him, matching his posture. He runs his hand through his hair after a minute.

“So, you were talking about the pale quadrant just there?”

“Yeah. Glad to see you were actually fucking paying attention.”

“Mind like a steel trap,” Dave says. “So, when you’re in pale with someone, what does that mean?”

“Uh,” Karkat says, a little uncertainly. “It’s pretty much what we’ve been doing. I keep you from killing yourself or anyone else, and you keep me grounded with your idiocy.”

“I dunno, man, from the sound of it you need more looking after than I do.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?” Karkat demands.

“Way I hear it, you broke in and out of Persephone in the past week, all by your lonesome. Something that dangerous sounds like a cry for help, Karkat.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that was a thing that happened,” Karkat says.

“It’s okay, Karkat. Papa Dave is here to rub your back and take the hurt away. You don’t need to go gallivanting off to prison just to get my attention.”

“Fuck off, I only did that because I thought you were going to be there!” Karkat snarls.

“Did you find Dirk?”

“I did, sort of,” Karkat says sheepishly. “Before I tell you, I need you to promise me not to flip your shit off the handle again.”

“Scout’s honor,” Dave says, holding up two fingers.

“Okay. Fuck, why do I have to do this again?”

“Karkat, you’re stalling. How bad is it?”

“It’s bad,” Karkat says, latching onto the phrase. “It’s bad. I don’t know if it’s irreversibly bad, but. Okay, don’t give me that look! You’d stall too!”

“Probably not, but then I have no idea what you’re talking about, so I’m not really one to judge.”

“Okay. Alright. So. There isn’t really a good way to say this,” Karkat says apologetically. “Dirk’s…been submitted to the Protector Program. He’s a Protector now.”

Dave stares at Karkat blankly. When Karkat doesn’t elaborate, Dave takes a deep breath. Then another one. Then a third one.

“Okay, so he’s roaming around the city in a metal suit following a creepy as fuck eight year old with a comically over-sized syringe, no big deal,” Dave says.

“Cutting you off before you start hyperventilating,” Karkat says, putting his hand over Dave’s mouth to keep him from talking. “Like I said, it’s bad. But I know what he looks like in his Protector suit, so we can _find_ him. I also got this.”

Karkat removes his hand from Dave’s face, checking with Dave that he won’t start freaking out, and reaching into his jacket to take out the glowing green hypo. Karkat holds it out of Dave’s reach, but doesn’t hide it.

“I got this earlier tonight. I figured if we ever found Dirk, we could hypnotize him to keep him from killing us, and then try and figure out how to un-Protector Program him. The only problem is, I have no fucking clue where to even start.”

Dave purses his lips, thinking.

“We could check Doctor Lalonde’s clinic. She might be able to help us. She’s supposed to be the city’s foremost expert on ADAM and plasmid treatments.”

Karkat nods.

“Then we’ll try there, but not until we’ve found Dirk. He’s some kind of Alpha Series Protector, whatever the fuck that means, and he’s got a Greek letter Kappa on the back of his gloves.”

“So, no problem spotting him then,” Dave remarks.

“It’s better than nothing, Strider,” Karkat growls. “But, it means that one of us is going to have to splice up, and I don’t want it to be you for obvious reasons.”

“Ain’t no way you’re splicing,” Dave says, a little heatedly. “No, if this relationship is going to work, we need at least one of us to be sound of mind and body, and that sure as hell isn’t me. I’ll do it. He’s my brother, I should be the one to save his sorry ass.”

Karkat tries to protest, but Dave simply shakes his head.

“No, Karkat. I may not be doing so well with the infrequent splicing I’ve done already, but a little more won’t kill me. I need you to stay sane and unspliced for me. Otherwise, I might just lose it.”

Karkat crosses his arms.

“I don’t like this,” he says. “It just seems like whatever way forward we take, things are just going to get worse for us. If I splice, I can’t be sure we won’t both end up insane lunatics. If you splice again, you’re just going to get there faster, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop you.”

“Hey, put it this way,” Dave says. “ADAM doesn’t work without EVE, right? So we get Dirk, get him fixed if we can, and then I throw all my plasmids and never use EVE again. Problem solved.”

Karkat doesn’t think so, but has no response. They sit in silence for a bit longer as the bathysphere approaches the next station. 

“So, are you okay with this? With…us?” Karkat asks quietly.

Dave is silent for a while. The bathysphere surfaces, and Karkat stands up quickly to get out. Dave stops him.

“I don’t know. I think so? It’s not something I’m used to.”

“No shit.”

“Just, I don’t know, give me some time,” Dave says. “Love me pale, Karkat, or whatever it is that Trolls do. If I decide it’s just not for me, then I’ll let you know. Okay?”

Karkat hugs Dave tightly. The bathysphere door opens with a hiss, and the two step out.

“Where are we, anyway?” Dave asks.

“There,” Karkat points to a nearby sign. “Fort Frolic.”

The station is empty, except for a few gaudy drapes and an enormous masque hanging from the ceiling. Distant music drifts to them from deeper into the Fort. Karkat notices two plaster statues standing guard by the exit. They both wear masks.

 

***

 

Meenah hits the ground hard, sand and pebbles kicking up around her as the water rushes out of her lungs. Feferi circles above her once, and then dives, shard grasped tightly in her hands. Meenah rolls to the side, and Feferi misses, throwing up more sand, dust, and small rocks. The younger Peixes swipes at the cloud with her broken trident, striking nothing but ocean.

“Cod dammit! Just hold still so I can ‘poon ya!” Meenah snarls.

“No chance in hell,” Feferi says in Meenah’s ear. Meenah scoots left quickly as Feferi swims past, fending off her jab with the trident. The older troll is toying with her, and Meenah knows it. She needs some kind of edge.

“Come on, come on,” Meenah says, surveying the cityscape.

The battle has traveled from the Adonis, over the edge of a small cliff and toward the Atlantic Express terminal. Meenah and Feferi fight among the railroad pylons and oxygen stations, billboards and spotlights. A kelp jungle grows up around them from the residual heat of the industrial park. That’s when Meenah sees the headlamp.

“Come on, Meenah,” Feferi taunts. “Where’s that aggressive impulse of yours I’ve worked so hard to curb?”

Meenah shoves off the ocean floor and bowls into Feferi, knocking aside the shard with her trident. Feferi is thrown upwards, striking the rail and nearly losing her weapon. Dazed, she drifts down right into the path of an oncoming train.

“Oh, fu--,” she curses as the train rams into her, breaks squealing in the depths. Meenah grins and whoops.

“Haha! Fuck you, witch! Fuck you very much!”

There’s a rending sound, and the train that hit Feferi falls off its rail. Bruised and livid, Feferi Peixes floats a distance away, broken shard jammed into the train’s brake box. She spits out blood, staining the ocean around her pink. A pair of sharks swim in to investigate.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, smallfry,” Feferi says. She charges. Meenah backstrokes as quickly as possible.

 

***

 

Vriska sits with her back to the cell door, listening and frowning. Throughout Hephaestus, she can hear loud bangs, like gunshots or bombs exploding, echo down into her cell (which is a very makeshift reappropriation of a tool closet. Come oooooooon, Slick, get your act together!). Terezi has fallen silent, finally, giving Vriska all the quiet she needs for thinking.

“Well, I think that’s about long enough!” she declares, slipping a pair of lock picks out of her sleeves and freeing herself from her shackles. “Is it just me, or are the help here just about the laziest chessmen you’ve ever seen? Not even the initiative to conduct a proper search! No wonder John’s always strapped for allies.”

Vriska releases Terezi, helping her to her feet.

“Vriska, I would like to advise that the course of action we are about to undertake is both illegal and dangerous,” she states flatly.

“Well, what should we do then, oh wise legal officer?” Vriska rolls her eyes.

“Break some heads!” Terezi grins.

The prison door is open in a trice, and the two burst out into the corridor. Black chessmen rush back and forth in a great panic, only a few sparing them any glances. Vriska stops one of them with a rough hand.

“Hey, you! Peon! What’s the rush?”

The chessman trembles in her hand and doesn’t say anything. Vriska scoffs in disgust and lets him go. She and Terezi walk quickly away from the cells, dodging armed guards whenever possible. At one juncture, Vriska has to let Terezi sit down while she handles a few chessmen armed with machine guns.

“Evening, boys!” she calls as she approaches.

The chessmen level their guns at her, eyes narrowed threateningly. Vriska hands a pair of blue dice in her hands, which she tosses toward them. Cerulean smoke fills the hall, and Vriska quickly disarms the chessmen, and executes them. She goes back for Terezi, hanging onto one of the Thompsons.

“That trick never gets old,” she muses.

They follow the trickle of chessmen until they eventually reach a control room. Spades Slick is inside, barking orders into a radio receiver.

“I don’t care if it’s the most valuable clock in all of Rapture, I want that thing smashed to pieces, do you understand me?”

“Hey Slick!” Vriska calls.

Slick looks over. He allows himself a split second to be surprised, and then throws his surprise in the slammer. Vriska raises the Thompson, couching it against her hip. She grins and pulls the trigger.

Bullets pepper Slick, sending him reeling backwards against the radio receiver. Vriska empties the entire clip into him, tearing holes the size of grapefruits in his chest, stomach, arms and face. He is an unrecognizable bloody pulp when the magazine runs dry. She points the Thompson around the room at the other chessmen, unconscious to the fact that it’s empty.

“Listen up, mooks! This place is now under new management!”

 

***

 

Horuss Zahhak paces nervously about the vault. He checks his watch twice, growing irritated that his new, sweat-steam-based design isn’t as accurate as the traditional clockwork. He’s going to have to modify that as soon as possible, maybe now while he’s got a moment—except no, he must wait! There’s important work being done!

He stands in a dark vault next to a large glass tube. Inside the tube, green plasma arcs between two leads, one at each end of the tube. More complicated machinery hides inside a brass enclosure behind the tube, but it’s all so much mechanical window-dressing. The real scientific achievement is happening in the tube.

The tube flashes, and hums, and the plasma arcs more erratically. A shadow forms in the center of the tube, growing darker and darker, resolving more and more detail until with a final flash the tube opens up, and John Egbert stumbles forward.

“Welcome back, Mr. Egbert,” Horuss says, sweating profusely. “I trust the reassembly process wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

John looks down and counts his fingers. He recites the alphabet.

“No, I think the chamber worked just fine,” he says. “But things are getting hectic up there, so as far as anyone knows I’m still dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! VitaChambers. Forgot about those, didn't you?


	16. The Party's Over Now

The author tramps grumpily through Fort Frolic, kicking bits of rubble as he goes.  He wears a grubby suit and tailcoat, and badly applied stage makeup.  His shoes click against the floor tiles.  He rubs his eyes, smearing a copious amount of eyeliner.

 

“This is fantastic,” he spits bitterly at a self-portrait it plaster.  Someone has taken paint and defaced it with brightly colored splashes.  “And this one’s ruined!  Fuck, I don’t have time for this.”

 

The author grouses to himself as he crosses the atrium, ascending the stairs two at a time.  The neon sign over the entrance to Fleet Hall casts a cheery teal glow over the second floor balcony.

 

“Gog, this was supposed to be done weeks ago,” he grumbles.  “Me and my gogdamn Muse.”

 

The author goes into the theatre, down the plush carpeted stairs to the box office, past the snack counter and up a brief elevator ride to the house.  He throws open the doors, casting around the dark space.  A spotlight strikes the stage, illuminating a piano and a small green doll leaning against the bench.  The doll has lime green cheek swirls and a smart green felt suit.

 

“There you are, Calliope,” the author picks up the doll.  “I was wondering where you went.  I’ve been looking all over the place for you.  You’re a hard one to find when you want to be.  But enough about that!  We’ve got to get back to work.”

 

The author hugs the doll close, its lime green eyes popping as the stuffing gets squeezed to its head.  Together they walk back up the house, taking a concealed door to the backstage.  Up a flight of stairs, he takes out a key and opens a caged door into the projector booth.

 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” the author curses.  “Little girl, you can’t sit there!”

 

A Little Sister in an orange smock sits at the projector, singing to herself and playing with a pink and white toy horse.  She trots the thing across the machine back and forth, periodically neighing in time with the tune.

 

“Gog fucking hell, where is your father?  How did you even get in here?  You’re supposed to be in the plaza right now!”

 

The girl turns to regard the author impassively, eyes glowing dully.  He finds the gesture mildly insulting, as well as off-putting.  He’s the gogdamned author, for the love of fuck!  This brat has no business looking that…that downright condescending!  She probably learned the trick from that infuriatingly hard to pin down Subject Kappa.

 

“I got bored,” she says, shrugging.  “Say, Mister, why’s your face all white like that?”

 

“Well, I was _trying_ to assume the persona of a well-known BioShock character in order to jumpstart the last part of this frayed and neglected narrative, but I was never any good at stage makeup.  Now shoo!  Get out of the grown-up seat so I can get this show on the road!”

 

“Nope!” the girl shakes her head firmly.  “Not ‘til Daddy comes back.”

 

The author looks at her, then at the ceiling, sighing in frustration.  The little girl goes back to playing with her horse.

 

“If I tell you where your father is, will you go?”

 

The girl pauses to consider the offer.  Then she looks sideways at the green doll the author is holding.  The author notices this, but quickly abjures.

 

“No, out of the question.  I need this doll to write the story.  She’s my Muse, for crying out loud!  Without her, I don’t have the inspiration to write, and where does that leave us?”

 

“Mister, if you don’t give me the pretty dolly, I’m crying to daddy,” the girl says, putting the horse down and crossing her arms.  The author narrows his eyes at her.

 

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says.  “Good girls don’t cry to daddy just because they don’t get what they want.”

 

“Says you!” the little sister sticks her tongue out.  “Now give it!”

 

The author pinches the bridge of his nose.  This kid just will not budge, and if he doesn’t do something to wrap up this ridiculous self-indulgent segue then he might lose more than just his Muse.  He lets out a breath.

 

“Tell you what,” he says.  “How about I trade you this doll for your horse, and you go run along to find your daddy.  Sound like a deal?”

 

The little sister thinks about it for a second, and then nods, smiling brightly.  She clambers out of the chair and hands over the horse.  The author gives her Calliope reluctantly, and watches as the girl skips toward the door, doll clasped firmly to her chest.

 

“Hey, does this horse have a name?” the author calls after her.

 

“Maplehoof!  And she neighs!  Bye, Mister!”

 

The girl disappears out the door, which the author quickly closes and locks.  He slumps glumly over to the projector, allowing his face to fall into his hand with a dramatic sigh.  He picks up the horse, trotting it a few times back and forth.

 

“Neigh,” he says.

 

He puts the horse down and walks over to a nearby cabinet with a collection of film reels.  He talks out the fourth wall while rummaging through them.

 

“Well, now that my Muse is gone, I suppose it’s just a matter of moving the pieces to their final configuration on the board.  No more brilliant twists of fate, no more exciting reveals or cliffhangers.  All this was, in fact, planned out for quite a while—not to make a liar out of myself, but I wasn’t groping as blindly through the plot as I led you to expect.  In many ways, the narrative structure of No Gods Or Kings has mirrored the plot of the original BioShock, although in what capacity and using which characters as proxies for Jack I’ll let you judge.  Some of them should be obvious.”

 

The author picks out a particular film reel, blowing dust off it.

 

“I think the most fun part, for me, about writing this was the dancestors,” the author makes a face.  “What a fucking stupid word.  Anyway, they presented a wonderful opportunity: I had two essentially blank templates with two sets of characteristics I could mix and match at will.  That’s why we have Kanaya playing the role of maternal guardian to Kankri, for instance, and also why Aradia was the Megido with ties to Lord English instead of Damara.  Little things.  But still, important.  And this went for everyone, as well, and not just their adolescent forms.  But anyway.”

 

The author walks back over to the projector and begins fussing with it, trying to fit the reel in without tearing the film.

 

“To briefly recap, because I’m sure it’s been long enough for most of you, we last left our heroes dealing with the immediate aftermath of the New Year’s Eve riots.  Jane, having deduced the real villain’s identity, followed the trail of clues to the English Submersible Disposal & Repair office, where she discovered the location of the villain’s hideout and confronted a shell-shocked Jake about the bombing at the Adonis, shortly afterward leaving for a climactic confrontation at the Rapture Memorial Museum.  Vriska, meanwhile, daringly escaped captivity and, with the help of her blind lawyer, seized control of Egbert Industries, killing Spades Slick in the process.  Roxy found Cronus, dead from a bullet wound inflicted by a grieving and possibly unhinged Nepeta, who had abducted Meulin.  Taking his rifle, Roxy sent her cohort of little sisters out to find the rogue Leijon so she could administer the Formula to Meulin and the others, freeing them of their ADAM slugs and undoing significant parts of their mental conditioning.  Karkat, at the prompting of Kurloz, found Dave at Apollo Square in the middle of a riot, and the two escaped together in a bathysphere.  They tentatively entered into glorious moirallegiance, and resumed their risky search for Subject Kappa, the last link holding them to Rapture.  Outside, Feferi and Meenah incited a duel to the death, a confrontation that would have been considered inevitable for trolls of their position to anyone with the slightest grasp of troll history and social psychology.  Deep beneath the city, Kankri and Kanaya steeled themselves for their own revolt, and John Egbert revived in a Vita Chamber, preparing to salvage the situation.”

 

The author finishes putting the film-reel into the projector.  He moves to a record player nearby, cranking the device into life and setting the needle down on the vinyl.  Waltz of the Flowers plays throughout the fort.  The author moves back to the projector.

 

“Without further ado…”

 

 

***

 

_“Ladiiiiiiiies and gentlemen!  Listen up!  John Egbert is dead!  Egbert Industries is now under my control!  The Midnight Crew has been in cahoots with dangerous gangs of hoodlums and is even now attempting to seize control of Rapture!  I would like to make a peace offering to whomever calls themself the White Knight: Vriska Serket bears you no ill will.  We have a common enemy: the Midnight Crew, and all their cronies!  You want freedom?  Take it!  You want justice?  It’s yours!  I will help you rip it from their black carapaced clutches!  And to aaaaaaaanyone who considers themselves and ally of either the Midnight Crew or the Felt, your days are num8ered!”_

The announcement rings out in the streets over loudspeakers, in lieu of the usual endless stream of Rapture Reminders.  Jake English shivers and pulls his coat collar up higher, hiding his face from view.  He feels like everyone he passes knows him, knows what he did.  He carries with him a briefcase of essentials, and has two pistols holstered out of sight.  He’d considered calling Jade, to make sure she is alright, that the riots haven’t reached her, but thought better of it—she’s in Arcadia, which is as heavily fortified as it is quietly beautiful.  Jade is fine.  Jake only has to worry about himself.

 

Fortunately, he’d planned ahead for such an instance where he would have to rapidly go into hiding.  He steps gingerly over the charred bodies of a pair of partygoers and checks the nearest street sign, making sure he’s still on the way to Neptune’s Bounty.  Normally he would take the metro, but all the subs have been locked down due to the citywide emergency.

 

“Just have to get to the sub bay,” he says to himself.  “And then everything’s right as rain.”

 

He tries to believe it, but watching a pair of chessmen beat up a troll with picket signs doesn’t calm his nerves.

 

 

***

 

 

The little sister in the orange smock skips and hums through the Fort, Calliope held close.  She stops by a key-shaped vent, putting the doll down.  She takes a step back to make sure the smiling cherub won’t move.

 

“Wait here,” she says.  “I’ll be right back.”

 

She clambers up to the vent opening with many scuffs and grunts.  Calliope sits demurely at the base of the vent, patiently waiting for her new friend to return.  A minute later, the little sister pokes her head back out the vent.  She drops to the ground with a small ‘oof,’ and dusts herself off.  Triumphantly, she holds aloft a box of multi-colored chalk.

 

“Come on, Callie, let’s go drawing!”

 

They find an empty piece of wall by the entrance to Poseidon Plaza.  Calliope leans against it, smiling blankly as the little sister sets about her art.  She draws a great big yellow circle, filling it in with lots of scribbles.  Below it she draws a wavy blue line, which she broadens and deepens.  She uses most of the stick of chalk.  Turning back to the box, she frowns, sorting through the pieces until settling on pink.  She huffs and turns to a different part of the wall, drawing butterflies.

 

“Angels are so pretty,” she sighs to Callie.

 

She picks up the purple chalk and draws a skinny angel standing on the wavy blue line.  She draws and fills in a white circle over its head.

 

“What should we draw next, Callie?”

 

The doll smiles.  The litter sister claps her hands with glee.

 

“That’s a great idea!  We’ll draw daddy!”

 

The little sister takes out a piece of orange, a piece of green, and picks up the remains of the blue chalk.  She draws a little smiling girl in an orange dress, holding a green doll with green cheek swirls.  The little girl of chalk has her arm out like she is holding someone’s hand.  The little sister frowns again.

 

She draws a pair of orange eyes, a mass of yellow hair pointing every direction, and a flat line for a mouth.  With the blue chalk, she draws a diving suit, but the picture looks wrong to her.  Even Calliope hesitates to shower it with her usual praise.

 

“I don’t get it, Callie,” she puts her hands on her waist, smearing her dress with chalk dust.  “Daddy doesn’t look happy.  I think he misses someone.  What should we do?”

 

The little sister sits down and ponders this deeply troubling problem.  She picks up Calliope and holds her out, regarding her closely.  The doll smiles back.

 

“Ugh, you’re no help,” the little sister says.  “But that’s okay, we can go looking for more angels instead!”

 

The little sister, leaving her chalk, skips ahead with Calliope in tow.

 

 

***

 

 

Meenah slams into the corroding bronze statue, vision swimming.  Her piece of trident falls from her loose grip as the impact stuns her.  She has a moments’ reflection on the merits of attempting to lose one’s crazy sea witch of a mother in a kelp forest before a sharp pain explodes in her chest.  Pink.  A cloud of pink floats up around her, obscuring her view.

 

Feferi sneers, metal shard pinning the dying troll to the statue.  Her voluminous hair floats around her head like a turbulent cloud, marine snow gathering in the curls.  Feferi twists the makeshift harpoon, shattering a couple of ribs as Meenah’s head lolls about.

 

“You always were a fishappointment,” Feferi says, releasing her grip and swimming away.

 

 

***

 

 

“Karkat.”

 

“What?”

 

“Hey, Karkat.”

 

“I’m standing right here, you fuck.”

 

“Karkat look over there.”

 

Karkat groans and glares at Dave.

 

“If this is another round of that stupid human espionage game, then I am going to tear your fucking eyes out of your misshapen skull.”

 

“Dude, you know you love my I Spy shenanigans.  But this is serious.  I need you to tell me I’m not just seeing things.”

 

Karkat looks over to where Dave is pointing.  They have been wandering Fort Frolic for an hour, alternately scouring the place for traces of Subject Kappa and getting into heated arguments over who was winning in what Karkat was beginning to consider the Olympic Competition In Insipid Douchebaggery.  Unsurprisingly, Dave was in the lead.

 

“If you’re seeing a shitty chalk drawing of a big daddy, then no you don’t need to get your eyes checked again,” Karkat says.  “Holy fuck, we might be on the right track here.”

 

“Orange eyes, blonde hair, fucking jackpot,” Dave says, pumping his fist.  “Gimme the hypo.  This one’s as good as bagged.”

 

“No way, assmunch,” Karkat says.  “You’re not getting this ADAM until we see the yellow light of that fucker’s faceplate.”

 

“Karkat, don’t be a sore bonebulge.  We’re so close, I can almost taste it.”

 

“What you’ll be tasting is disappointment, because I’m not giving you the hypo.  And who taught you troll slang?  Jegus H, that’s not even a phrase we use.”

 

Dave and Karkat walk into Poseidon Plaza, closed and empty for the holidays, except for the odd splicer and the dozens of unsettling plaster statues they’ve been seeing everywhere.  The Waltz of the Flowers draws to a close, only to loop back again to the beginning of the track.  Dave holds up his hand, making Karkat stop.

 

“Wait, listen,” he says.

 

Karkat’s ears prick: a little girl, somewhere up ahead, singing a nonsense song vaguely in tune with the muzak.  He nods to Dave, and the two lope forward, weapons drawn in case of trouble.  Outside of Eve’s Garden, they find the source of the sound.  A little sister in an orange smock, holding a green doll with green cheek swirls, drawing blood out of a recently dead troll.

 

“Oh, hi,” the little sister says, looking over at them.

 

“Uh, hey,” Dave says, uncertainly.  The little sister hums along, blithely ignoring them.

 

Karkat looks at Dave, and then takes a preparatory breath before stepping toward the girl.  She doesn’t even notice him until he’s within arm’s reach of her.  She stops drawing blood and looks up into his face.  The little sister smiles.

 

“Mister, my daddy doesn’t like it when strangers come close.”

 

There’s no warning.  A heavy impact against the side of Karkat’s face, and he’s seeing stars.  Dave is shouting as Karkat’s vision swims.  He slams into something hard and cold, and crumples to the ground.  Somewhere behind him he hears a loud roaring, and the little girl yelling encouragement.

 

Karkat is unconscious for a few moments, coming to with his face pressed against the floor by an exterior window.  Fish dart past, and he groans, pushing himself upright.  The roaring sound fills his ears, and his head hurts like it’s splitting apart.  His face is swollen to hell, no doubt, as well.  Karkat glances over to where Dave is engaging the Big Daddy.  It might be Subject Kappa, but both Dave and the behemoth protector are fast—too fast for Karkat to be able to tell.  He retrieves the hypo.

 

Does he call for Dave now, or does he splice himself and end this?  Dave might die if he gets distractioned.  That can’t be allowed to happen.  Karkat takes a breath, rolls up his sleeve, and shoves the needle into his arm with a grimace.

 

Waves of intense heat flow through him from the injection site, and he begins to spasm a little while the plasmid takes its toll.  Karkat seizes, hitting his head against the window and passing into unconsciousness again.  When he comes to, it has probably only been seconds, but he’s lying next to a pool of his own vomit.  A green ball falls into his hand.

 

He stands up, feeling a dizzying rush as the blood flows to his brain.  He takes careful aim, and lobs the plasmid at the Big Daddy.

 

It splatters against the thing’s helmet, and it immediately becomes docile.  Dave was in mid-strike, but stops his blade an inch from severing an oxygen line.  He is panting, and glances over at Karkat in trepidation.  Karkat tosses another plasmid ball, and Dave relaxes marginally.

 

“Karkat,” he says.  It’s hard to tell if he is reproving or wary.

 

“Don’t,” Karkat cuts him off.  “Just take off his helmet so we know for sure.”

 

Dave nods, and unfastens the Big Daddy’s helmet.  There’s a hiss, and Dave grunts as he lifts the heavy metal pod up.  He puts it on the ground, and looks up into a pair of dilated orange eyes.

 

“Dirk,” Dave confirms.  Dirk stands there, armored and angry, but unable to move himself.  The little sister stands nearby, stoically taking this all in.

 

“Alright, let’s get this guy to Doctor Lalonde’s clinic,” Karkat says.  “I don’t know how long these things last, so sooner would be fucking preferable.”

 

“Hey fuckwhiff,” Karkat calls to Dirk, who snaps his head around to look at Karkat.  “Put your helmet back on and let’s go.”

 

“What should we do with the kid?” Dave asks.  The little sister is holding the doll and looking at them.

 

“Fuck it, bring her with us, I guess,” Karkat says.  “Better than leaving her here by herself.”

 

 

***

 

 

Hearts Boxcar understands two things: torrid romance (oh, just thinking about it brings a flush to his cheeks!), and keeping order.  With his fists.  And with guns.  Right now, mostly with guns.  The chessmen turning Apollo Square into a war zone are suspiciously well armed, and Hearts radios back to base, before the Serket bitch makes her cheeky announcement, to get some flatfoots sniffing out weapons dealers.  Base reminds him that anyone can buy a gun from vending machines scattered throughout the city.  Hearts radios back asking who the hell thought that was a good idea.  Base shrugs.  They thought it was pretty dumb, too, but this is Rapture, so it’s not like anyone was going to stop them.

 

Hearts doesn’t usually hesitate to throw his considerable weight around, knowing the boys at base are on line with backup.  Now, he’s feeling surrounded and cut off.  He’s reminded of the war, shortly after the Queen abdicated and the country fell into chaos.  In fact, this scenario is a pretty neat mirror of that one, only less with the underwater art deco metropolis and more trenches and poison gas.  He digresses.

 

The rioting in the square itself has been pretty thoroughly squashed, and with the metro station closed that’s one back door he doesn’t have to worry about.  There are, however, four avenues that intersect at the place, and the rioters dispersed down all of them.  Hearts doesn’t know how organized they are, but after Vriska’s speech, he’s loathe to risk many more Crew member’s lives chasing them down.

 

Hearts presides over his base of operations in the metro station.  He keeps the radio operator on the horn for news from any other members of the Midnight Crew.  The situation has changed, and they might need to move to assist. 

 

There’s a bubbling noise from one of the platforms, and a bathysphere surfaces.  The hatch opens, and a troll wearing pointed red shades and a tatty turquoise suit steps out.

 

“H34RTS BOXC4R!” she calls.

 

Shit, it’s that lawyer dame.  Hearts shouts for the guards to take her out.

 

Terezi draws a pistol and shoots, splattering Hearts’ brains against the radio.  The radio operator shrieks in fright.  Terezi levels her gun on the hapless chessman.

 

“Radio this back to HQ,” she barks.  “THR33 DOWN, ON3 TO GO!”

 

 

***

 

 

Roxy leads the little sister by the hand down a quiet street.  She’s tired, and armed, and just wants to bring this sorry episode of her life to a close already.  The little sister yawns, and so Roxy picks her up.

 

“There, there, girlie,” she says.  “I know you’re tired.  I’ll take you home and tuck you in, ‘kay?  How’s that sound?”

 

The little sister nods.  Roxy tries to remember the way back to the flat, but at that moment two of the girls push their way out of a nearby key-vent, slapping and arguing.

 

“I saw her first, so I win!”

 

“Nuh-uh, I’m gonna tell Miss Roxy first, so I win!”

 

“You cheater!”

 

“Girls!” Roxy calls.  They fall instantly quiet, but then start pointing at each other and gabbing.

 

“She’s a meanie, Miss Roxy, and she pushed me and called me a cheater!”

 

“She started it, Miss Roxy, and I did not!”

 

“Girls, take it down a notch,” Roxy says.  “Did you find her?”

 

“Yes!  We did!  She’s at the—.”

 

“No, I want to tell her!  She’s at a big house full of trolls, and there’s a tall troll with wings and great big horns who’s really nice, and—.”

 

“So the scary lady went inside and took Meulin with her, and I tried to follow her in, but a lot of mean people started yelling at me.”

 

“Huh,” Roxy says.  “Should’ve figured she’d have gone to Rufioh’s.”

 

Roxy kneels down gingerly, mindful of the sleeping little sister in her arms.

 

“You girls did good, okay?  I’ve gotta reward you somehow, but right now I need to drop this one of at the apartment.  You go round up the others, and meet me back there, okay?”

 

“Yes, Miss Roxy,” the little sisters say in unison.

 

“See, we both won,” one of them says as they scamper off.

 

“I still won,” the other retorts.

 

“You be quiet!”

 

 

***

 

 

Jane is running cautiously across the plaza before the Memorial Museum when she hears the sound of something tapping against glass.  She pauses and looks around—greco-roman pillars, potted plants, boards over every doorway except the restrooms.  The Memorial Museum sign is off.  She looks up at the ceiling, suspicion dawning on her.

 

Feferi stands on the roof, looking down and tapping on the glass with a golden double-ended trident.  She motions for Jane to wait, and then swims off out of sight.  A few minutes later, she emerges dripping wet from a maintenance access doorway.  Her pink dress is ripped and muddy, and her hair somehow despite the seawater puffs out in all directions.

 

“Miss Peixes,” Jane says.  “What are you doing here?”

 

“I was swimming by,” Feferi replies, picking sand out of her nails.  “I’ve just dealt with Meenah.  So wonderful of you to have flounder for me.  Your kelp has been much appreciated.”

 

“I’m sorry, but this is much bigger than Meenah now,” Jane says.  “I’ve been tracking the Felt, the gang that took Meenah in.  They’re in the Memorial Museum on the sly, possibly even in Prometheus Tower.”

 

“So, what, you’re going in by yourself?” Feferi raises a perfectly tweezed eyebrow at her.

 

“I’m not unarmed,” Jane retorts.  
  
“Oh, of course,” Feferi replies.  “The Felt won’t know what hit them.  I can sea the headlines in tomorrow’s Tribune: Lone detective faces off against leprechaun kingpin, arrests everyone!  Reel career making stuff, right?”

 

“What would you suggest I do?  The city’s in chaos,” Jane says heatedly.  “Egbert Industries has been seized by pirates, rioters have taken to the streets, and I’m not inclined to trust the Midnight Crew as far as I could throw any one of them.  I’m on my own here.”

 

“Whale, as it happens, I have a score to settle with these green basshoals myself,” Feferi says.  “I’ll help you.”

 

Jane raises an eyebrow at Feferi, who is smiling brightly at her.

 

“You criticize me for going alone, and all you’re bringing is a shiny fork?”

 

“Don’t underestimate my harpooning skills,” Feferi smirks.  “I was queen of these seas once, you know.”

 

“Alright, let’s go,” Jane says, drawing her revolver.

 

The atrium to the museum is dark and empty, a few discarded posters and paper cups by a trash can that smells like it hasn’t been dealt with in weeks.  Jane wrinkles her nose as she and Feferi sneak past, quietly opening the doors to the marine exhibit hall.  The ichtyosaur skeleton still hangs from the ceiling, but the lower level is littered with smashed glass, bones, and body parts.  The place carries with it the stench of death, causing Jane to gag a little.  Feferi takes in the aroma.

 

“Ah, it reminds me of the war,” she says fondly.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Jane says, covering her nose.

 

They take a left through the east wing, where a flight of stairs will take them down to the ground floor, pausing every so often to admire one of the displays.  The silence of the place is eerie—surely there ought to be some sort of evidence of people, Jane thinks, even if it was just a security camera.  They walk gingerly across the ground floor of the marine exhibit, careful not to step on any large stains, and enter the Xenocultural Exhibit in the west wing.

 

Past a section on medieval troll weaponry is a small display on cherubs, the center of which is dominated by an enormous sarswapagus.  Jane stops to read the placard.

 

“The sarswapagus holds particular meaning to cherub society, such as it can be called, owing to the important roll it plays during the juvenile phase of every cherub’s life.  Cherubs are born with two vascillating, competing personalities that express themselves on alternate waking cycles.  The sarswapagus serves as the young cherub’s bed until an event called Predomination, where one personality asserts itself over the other permanently, resulting in the other’s “death”.  The mature cherub frequently chooses to retain the sarswapagus as a memento to their deceased other half, and often these items serve as the cherub’s final resting place.”

 

“I don’t remember this exhibit that last time I was here,” Feferi says quietly.  “How’d the museum get any of these things?”

 

“They belong to Caliborn,” Jane says.  “This is his sarswapagus.  He’s here, somewhere in the building.”

 

“Impossibubble!  Caliborn’s dead!” Feferi says.

 

“He’s not,” Jane shakes her head.  “Let’s go.”

 

A flight of stairs takes them up to the base of Prometheus Tower, a small lobby with a battery of elevators at the end.  Feferi holds out an arm to stop Jane, pointing with her trident at a shadowy nook halfway to the elevators.

 

“Hold it, Inspector,” she says.  “We’re not alone.”

 

Snowman steps out of the shadows, rapier drawn.  She narrows her eyes at the two intruders threateningly.  Feferi smiles and steps forward.

 

“I’ll handle this one,” Feferi says.  “Beat it, Jane.”

 

Feferi and Snowman circle each other while Jane edges around the room to the elevators.  The black queen levels her blade at Feferi, drawing a line across her throat with her free thumb.

  
“I gutted your kingdom in the war, I’ll gut you now like a fish,” Feferi replies. 

 

Steel clashes against gold as Jane hurriedly pounds the elevator call button.  She jumps into the nearest cage that opens, which begins its ascent to the top floor.

 

 

***

 

 

Jake’s submarine arrives at Persephone, and he is greeted on the dock by an unamused Dignitary.

 

“Diamonds Droog, you old rascal,” Jake says, beaming.  “Can’t thank you enough for doing this for me.”

 

“No trouble at all, English,” the Dignitary replies.  “Come with me.  We’ve got some business to discuss.”

 

“Uh-oh,” Jake says, still grinning.  “You’ve got your serious business look on.  I should be worried about my bank accounts.  What’d you have in mind, old chap?”

 

“You’ll see,” the Dignitary says.

 

“It must be a secret,” Jake replies.  “Can’t say it before the peons, I get it.  Right then, you won’t hear a peep out of me until we’re nice and secure in your office.”

 

The Dignitary says nothing as he leads Jake through the twisting metal corridors of Persephone.  He opens a hatch into a scanned airlock, motioning for Jake to enter.

 

“What’s all this, old bean?  Your office wasn’t here last time,” Jake says, concerned.  The Dignitary shuts the hatch behind him, and the room begins to fill with a pale gas.  He lights a cigarette while he listens to the panicked shouting and pounding of fists on metal subside, dragging deeply.  It tastes like shit, but that’s the tradeoff for buying cheap local cigs.  They’re mostly ground coral and dried kelp.

 

The Dignitary signals to a pair of guards at the end of the corridor, opening the hatch back up and letting the gas settle around their feet.  The guards go in and drag the unconscious Jake English away to a more…secure location.  As if anything was more secure than literally anywhere in this facility.  The Dignitary allows himself a brief chuckle at the thought.

 

Jake comes to strapped to a chair in a dark room.  A light shines down on him from above, the glare in his face preventing him from seeing anything around him.  A voice speaks over the intercom.

 

“How’s your head, there, English?”

 

It’s the Dignitary.  Jake struggles against his bonds.

 

“Confound it, Diamonds, what’s the meaning of this?  My head feels like it’s splitting open, thank you, and why am I tied to this chair?”

 

There’s a noise like a buzzer, and a chessman steps out of the shadows.  Brass knuckles glint in the light, and Jake is winded by a sharp blow to his midriff.

 

“We know you’ve been playing us like suckers,” the Dignitary says over the intercom.  “Trying to go between two of the city’s most dangerous outfits and come out on top.  It’s why I agreed to deal with you in the first place.  Now, you’re gonna answer a few questions for the nice man, and hopefully you go home with most of your teeth.”

 

“This is a mistake!” Jake chokes out.

 

“No, English.  The mistake was thinking we played nice,” the Dignitary replies.  “Some of us, at least, pay for our mistakes.”

 

 

***

 

Kankri steps up to the intercom.  Behind him, Kanaya has incapacitated the room’s guards, and sits at a console controlling the cellblock’s doors.  Kankri nods at her, and begins talking.

 

“We have tried to be patient.  We have tried to be peaceful.  We have tried to be understanding—reform is difficult, and some must be led while others must be driven.  We have been rewarded with jackboots crushing our throats to stifle our voice.  We have been rewarded with arrest, imprisonment, debasement, and death.  The people’s blood has been spilled without regard to our lives or dignity, and for that we will no longer show patience, or understanding.  We will no longer be peaceful.  You, our jailers, have shown us no mercy.  We shall respond in kind.  My fellow inmates: I offer you your liberty.  Seize it, that we may be united once more as a brotherhood of free people!”

 

Kanaya flips switches as Kankri talks, opening the doors to every cell in every block.  She watches on an array of monitors as prisoners take a few tentative steps out, or run leaping and hollering out, throwing themselves at the prison guards furious abandon.

 

 

***

 

Jake spits up blood, eyes swollen nearly shut.  His nose is broken, and his chest feels like it’s on fire with each breath he takes.  The guard grabs his hair and lifts his face up to the light.

 

“This can end when you want it to,” he says.  “Just tell us what you know about the Felt.”

 

“I’ve already told you everything I know!  What more do you want from me?”

 

“Not good enough, English,” the guard says.

 

There’s a loud crash, and before the guard can wind up for another swing, three shadowy figures burst into the room.  They wrestle the guard to the ground, tearing into him with shivs and broken pipes.  The chessman is overwhelmed, and soon lies in a gurgling puddle on the floor.  The three shadows look at Jake.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Never seen ‘im before.”

 

“Can’t be on their side, not strapped in like that.”

 

“Look at ‘im, though.  He’s bloodied up, but that’s a posh suit, that is.”

 

“Let’s take him to the good Doctor, then.  Have him decide.”

 

Jake’s bindings are loosened, and he is roughly dragged out of the chair and into the corridor.  Dead guards lie on the floor, and in the somewhat better light outside the interrogation room Jake can see that the three figures wear prisoner’s overalls.  He thinks at least two of them are trolls.

 

They take him to a large room that once served as the Dignitary’s office: fine wooden desk, tasteful rug, nothing too outrageous in terms of knick-knacks or wall art.  Practical, in other words.  Jake is sat down in a chair in front of the desk, behind which sits a small troll with nubby horns and a red sweater.  He looks at Jake as though he is a problem of academic interest, and not a person who was just beaten within an inch of his life.

 

“Who is this?” the troll asks.

 

“Not sure Doctor Vantas,” one of Jake’s escort replies.  “He was being worked over when we found him.”

 

Doctor Vantas, Jake thinks.  That can only mean Doctor Kankri Vantas.  His prospects are beginning to look up.

 

“What’s your name?” Kankri asks Jake.

 

“Sir Jake English, Doctor,” Jake says.  “I was being tortured for information.”

 

“Information regarding what?”

 

“Ah…” Jake tries to think of a lie.  It might look bad if he’s known to be affiliated with gangs.  “Information…regarding the whereabouts of John Egbert.  He’s disappeared, you know.”

 

“Yes, I do know,” Kankri says.  “He disappeared when the public venue at which he was giving a speech was torpedoed.  No one survived that event, it’s believed.  I shouldn’t like you to lie to me, Jake: I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”

 

Kankri stands up and steps around the desk so that he’s standing in front of Jake.  He gently lifts Jake’s face so that the human has to look into a pair of yellow, searching eyes.  Kankri frowns.

 

“Take him to the infirmary,” he says.  “He’s not a threat to us, and needs treatment.”

 

Jake is taken away a moment later, watching over his shoulder as Kankri moves back around the desk to sit, taking up a pencil and writing on a pad of paper in front of him.

 

 

***

 

 

The Fighting Nitram’s is full of wounded trolls.  The lights are on, dispelling the usual pall of comfortable darkness about the place, and sleeping pads are lined up on the floor, each one occupied.  Rufioh moves about, bandaging people with open cuts and gashes, and bringing water and painkillers to any who ask for it.  His apron is splattered with a rainbow of colors, and he is trying to calm down a screaming blue blood when Roxy comes in.

 

“Just please calm down, sir…everything’s going to be fine, we just need to stop this bleeding…Oh, who’s there…?  Doctor Lalonde?  How did you get in?”

 

“The front door’s unlocked,” Roxy replies, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.  She has the rifle strapped across her back.  “Shit, Rufioh, what’ve you been doing?”

 

“I was at Apollo Square when it was attacked…so I tried getting people out of there, because the Midnight Crew was there with guns, and so many people were dying…But I’m kind of swamped…” Rufioh says, wiping his brow.  The blue blood starts convulsing.  “Darn it!  Doctor, can you help me with this…?”

 

Roxy curses, stepping forward quickly and helping keep the troll still while Rufioh fumbles with his first aid kit.  Roxy shoves him over, grabbing the kit and taking out a bottle of morphine.

 

“Hold his arm still,” she instructs, drawing up a reasonably heavy dose.  Rufioh complies, and half a minute after Roxy injects the blue blood, the tremors calm and he slips into unconsciousness.  “Crap, you’ve got jack shit for med supplies.  Is there someone you can send to go loot a pharmacy?”

 

Rufioh shakes his head.

 

“The phone lines went dead an hour ago…I can’t get ahold of anyone.”

 

“Fuck it,” Roxy says.  “We’ll deal with that when we’ve triaged these people.”

 

They are helping set the leg of a whimpering yellow blood when Roxy glances over and sees Nepeta standing by the bar, looking at her aghast.  There’s a beat, and then Roxy stands up, unshouldering her rifle as Nepeta fumbles in her overalls for her gun.  There’s a brief standoff.

 

“What are you doing here?” Nepeta hisses angrily.

 

“Nepeta, I need you to calm down,” Roxy says.  “I just want to help Meulin.”

 

“No!  You turned her into a fureak!” Nepeta snarls.  “Why should I trust you?”

 

“I can fix her,” Roxy says calmly.  “Just put the gun down, and let me see her.  I need to take her back to my lab.”

 

“If I let you take her away,” Nepeta says, smirking a little manically.  “You’ll nefur give her back.  You’re just a stupid human who likes playing games with children.”

 

“That’s not true,” Roxy says.  “Well, okay, I guess it is kind of true, because strictly speaking playing games is always fun.  Hide and seek is the bomb, let me just say.  But I’m not playing around anymore.”

 

Nepeta hisses.  Roxy stiffens, finger on the trigger of her gun.  Rufioh stands up slowly, hands out between the two.

 

“Okay, guys, can we not be doing that here…?”

 

Nepeta fires, missing Roxy but striking Rufioh, who falls.  Roxy takes aim and shoots Nepeta in the heart.  She falls backwards over the bar, olive blood staining the woodwork.  Roxy waits a moment, and then drops the gun to kneel beside Rufioh.

 

“Shit, Rufioh, are you alright?”

 

“Man, that stings…” Rufioh says through gritted teeth.  “I think she got my wings…”

 

Roxy gingerly rolls the troll over.  The bullet passed through his shoulder, and tore into the fine membrane of his wings.  Brown blood pools around the holes.  Roxy snorts.

 

“Damn, Ruf,” she says.  “Looks like your flying days might be over.”

 

She drags Rufioh over to an empty cot, and then goes to check on Nepeta.  She lies dead at the foot of the bar, and Roxy can’t say she’s sorry.  She checks the troll’s pockets for keys, finding one labeled 210.  She walks quickly upstairs to 210, unlocking the door.

 

“Meulin?” Roxy calls softly.  “It’s Miss Roxy.  You in here?”

 

The room is dark, except for a television set displaying static.  Meulin huddles in the corner lit by the beam, shaking and crying.  Roxy goes over to her, but Meulin shrinks away from her hand.

 

“Shh, there, there,” Roxy says.  “It’s just me.  Everything’s going to be okay.”

 

Meulin has been crying.  Roxy wraps her up in a hug, patting her hair and shooshing her.

 

 

***

 

 

The Dignitary walks quickly, for the moment still ahead of the ravening horde of escaped prisoners.  He unlocks a hatch to an elevator that takes him down to the bottom of the facility where an old emergency submarine bay sits.  It’s supposedly secret, supposedly disused, but the Dignitary knows otherwise.  Sometimes those rats from Serket’s gang slip in and sneak amenities to the inmates.  He’s known about it for years, and tolerated it because it helped him keep tabs on the pirate.

 

He turns on the lights to the sub bay.

 

“Surpriiiiiiiise!”

 

The Dignitary doesn’t deign to look shocked at the sight of Vriska Serket and a dozen of her goons holding machine guns with him in their crosshairs.  Really, he probably should have seen this coming.

 

“Waste him, 8oys,” Vriska says.

 

The Dignitary’s only regret before being peppered by his body weight in lead pellets is that his last cigarette was shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Just made the three month anniversary of this fic! At this rate, we should be finished by September.
> 
> Yeah, hopefully not. Next chapter's probably the last chapter, and then there may be an epilogue depending on how it ends. But I'm also on record as being a horrible liar, so take that for what it's worth.


	17. All Spliced Up

The VitaChamber, as Horuss liked to call it, sits idle in the center of the lab.  Nearby, he and John sit at monitors, watching the chaos enveloping the city.  John’s gaze is as calculating as it is somber. 

 

“Horuss, be honest,” John says, without turning.  “How badly have I screwed up?”

 

“You want honesty, sir?” Horuss says, nervously sweating. 

 

“Yeah.  Because my feeling is I screwed up pretty badly.”

 

“Granted, your circumstances weren’t entirely beneficient to our cause,” Horuss says, pulling at the collar of his sweatsuit.  “What with Slick’s betrayal and Caliborn’s insurrection.  These were factors quite beyond your control.”

 

“Still,” John says.  “Was there something else I could’ve done?  Was there something else I should’ve done?”

 

“Speculation on public policy has never been my strong suit,” Horuss says.  “I am a steamsmith.”

 

“But you’re a smart troll, Horuss,” John says, finally turning to his companion.  Horuss’s goggles have fogged up, and he is unclasping his helmet to clean them.  “You could’ve gone over to the Beforan Foundation, or jumped ship like Doctor Lalonde.”

 

“The work required by my contract with Egbert Industries has always held greater allure than anything the competition has ever dreamed up, to be frank,” Horuss replies, finally freeing himself of his headgear.  Black hair cascades down his back as he takes a damp cloth from a front pocket and wipes up the condensation.  “Quite apart from ADAM, which I’ve never understood, the mechanical demands of even one device implemented in the VitaChamber project would have satisfied me.”

 

John nods, and goes back to looking at the monitors.

 

“However, if I may be so bold,” Horuss says, yellow eyes narrowed.  “It might have behooved you not to take quite so active a role in shaping Rapture society.  This backlash is entirely against Egbert Industries, if my interpretation of events is to be considered accurate.”

 

“Which would explain Vriska’s announcement.  But she was careful to specify that the Midnight Crew were the true enemies,” John points out.

 

“It would not matter to the mob,” Horuss replies, cracking his goggles with the force of his minstrations.  “Fiddlesticks.”

 

“You’re too strong for your own good, you know,” John says.  “But I see what you’re saying.”

 

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but it is my view that Egbert Industries as such might be finished, and that it would be best to move on under a different alias,” Horuss says, sweeping up the glass into his leather apron and going to deposit the shards in the trash.

 

“I have always wanted to be a street performer,” John muses.

 

“Once the dust settles, it would be a perfect time to effect such a change in occupation,” Horuss suggests, rummaging in a cabinet for a spare lens.

 

“I suppose…” John trails off.

 

He regards the monitors silently.  Horuss notes his slumped shoulders and, putting his repairing equipment down, walks over to a small canteen in a nearby room.  The facility set aside for the project is small: just a few rooms, one of which is a small dynamo to keep the power draw from the core down to a minimum.  Once the difficult parts of the Protector Program were implemented, Horuss left his notes in the hands of his technicians and secluded himself here whenever possible to work on the VitaChamber.  Inside the canteen, a five by ten space with refrigerator, toaster oven, water boiler and pantries, Horuss rummages around in the fridge for a glass milk bottle.  He pours two glasses and takes one out to John.  John jumps a little when the troll offers him the beverage.

 

“Oh, thank you,” he says.

 

“I hope you find it acceptable chilled,” Horuss says.  His stutter around John has long since faded. 

 

“Yes, that’s fine,” John replies, taking a sip.  There is silence for a few more minutes.  Then John asks, “What will you do, after?”

 

“How do you mean?” Horuss inquires.

 

“Egbert Industries is finished,” John says.  “That much is clear.  Even if I were to return to public life, Vriska’s in charge of the place and she would hardly hand it back for free.  Besides, the White Knight owns the streets now, and without a police force to fight back, I wouldn’t last a minute.”

 

“Egbert Industries has always been, and always will be, more than its CEO,” Horuss says.  “But to answer your question: I do not know.  I suppose fixing the damage to Rapture’s infrastructure will be an engrossing task, but the thought of being relegated to the job of repairman is unappealing to me.  Perhaps I might start my own firm, sell VitaChambers and continue developing devices on my own.”

 

“Well,” John laughs hollowly.  “It’s your machine, now.  But do you think it would be wise to sell immortality to this city?”

 

Horuss does not answer at first.

 

“No,” he says, finishing his milk.  “I should think that very unwise.”

 

Suddenly, there’s a bright flare of light from behind them.  They turn, surprised, to see the VitaChamber activating, plasma flowing freely through the tube as a dark shadow forms and solidifies inside.  Horuss stands up, shocked and uncertain, hand straying toward his tool belt.  A solid wrench in the hands of any Zahhak would be enough to send many strong fighters running.  The legends of their invulnerability to bullets had thus far gone unchallenged, of course.

 

The doors of the tube whoosh open, and Jane stumbles forward, confused and disoriented.  John starts.

 

“Jane!”

 

“What?” Horuss asks, flabbergasted.  “But how?”

 

“What’s going on?” Jane asks, backing up so that she hits the tube.  “Where am I?  What just…?”

 

“Jane, how did you…?”

 

“John!  Where’s Caliborn?  What’s happened?  How did I get here?”

 

“Jane, you’re babbling,” John says, getting up and going to his sister.  “But how are you here?”

 

“If everyone could please be quiet!” Horuss shouted, strong voice echoing around the chamber.  “I need to think!  Miss Crocker, I need you to tell me exactly what happened to you before you stepped out of that tube.”

 

Jane is staring around, eyes wide and panicked.  She is clutching her face even as John tries to lower her arms.

 

“This isn’t real,” she says.  “This isn’t real, I must’ve gone mad.  This didn’t happen.  Oh god, I must really be dead.”

 

“What?” John asks.

 

“Say that again?” Horuss instructs.

 

“I have to be dead!” Jane starts to hyperventilate.  John slaps her firmly across the face, knocking her glasses askew.  She is startled out of her reverie.  While John attempts to calm her, Horuss hurries over to his cabinet of medical supplies to retrieve a flashlight.  As an afterthought, he ducks quickly into the canteen.  When he returns, Jane and John appear to be engaging in a slapping fight.  Horuss intervenes.

 

“Please, pardon my manners,” Horuss says, gently taking hold of Jane’s face and shining the light in her eyes.  Jane flails a little under his touch, pupils dilated.  Her panic subsides a little when he releases her and hands her a glass of milk.  “Miss Crocker, I assure you that you have not left the land of the living.  Please take a moment to reorient yourself.”

 

John pulls up a chair, which Jane collapses into, hands shaking as she holds her glass.

 

“This is real,” she says, taking a sip of milk.

 

“What happened?” John asks.

 

Jane suddenly stands up.

 

“John, we have no time to waste.  We have to destroy Prometheus Tower.”

 

 

***

 

 

As quickly as the revolution erupted, it changes.  The public face of John Egbert’s reign goes up in a flash fire, and the city’s chessmen ache for more targets for their burning rage.  They do not long wait for one.

 

Posters appear in looted squares where humans and trolls quickly hurry amongst the shadows so as not to be caught by roving bands of chessmen: _Plasmids Are Power!  Plasmids Corrupt The People!  Incinerate All Plasmids!_

 

Renderings of Big Daddies and Little Sisters are painted on stretches of blank walls with the caption: _Good Girls Don’t Gather ADAM._   Professor Jade, standing before one such mural, bites her lip in worry, rifle slung over her shoulder, messenger bag full of lab notes and ammunition.  It is late morning, January 1, 1960.  She has been awake most of the night in Arcadia, which was spared by its strict lockdown, tinkering with her roses since Roxy’s departure.  Last night, everything was as it should have been: John, for all his faults, kept order with self-effacing certainty; Roxy, for all her bad habits, still cared deeply to do right by the girls; Rapture, for all its grit and menace, remained beautiful.  Jade didn’t recognize the Rapture she emerged to find.  It was as if the gold had been stripped from the walls, revealing old bricks that had then been smashed with sledgehammers.  The shapes looked right, but everything else was wrong.

 

Jade walks to the nearest pay phone, lifting the receiver to hear the dialtone before depositing her money.  She calls up Jake’s apartment, but gets no answer.  There’s a panicked shriek behind her, and she drops the receiver.  Turning, she sees a trio of chessmen attacking a human woman with metal pipes.

 

“Hey!  Fuckass!” she shouts, unshouldering her rifle and leveling it at the nearest chessman.  He barely has the chance to turn before she shoots him in the head.

 

The other chessmen look up, and she picks off another shot, wounding the second.  The third shouts to another gang nearby, and points at Jade.

 

“Shit,” she curses, running down the street as a half-dozen chessmen charge after her.  She turns and fires off two more rounds, missing, before running into a nearby shop.  The chessmen charge up after her, but the first one to reach the door dies from two more bullets tearing through its carapaced torso.

 

Rather than risk more deaths, two of the chessmen light up Molotov cocktails and toss them into the storefront.  The rest form a half-circle around the front, shouting jeers at the cowering human inside.

 

Jade, having taken shelter behind the cash register, hears the smash of glass and feels the heat of the flames licking at the shelves.  She crawls over to the Employees Only door, and runs inside.  The fire alarm goes off, and sprinklers in the ceiling activate, soaking Jade as she tries to find some kind of maintenance access, or back exit.  Nothing.

 

The chessmen outside see the fire doused by the sprinklers, and, after a disappointed chorus of shouts, advance into the store.  They pick their way over the shelves, and check behind the register.  One of them opens the Employee’s Only door.

 

A pressurized gas tank strikes them in the face.  A moment later a plume of fire bursts the front windows of the store as Jade, taking cover behind an overturned table, shoots the tank.  Glass litters the street, and a few minutes later after the smoke has cleared Jade emerges.  The woman is dead.  Jade sighs sadly, and walks briskly back to her home.

 

Two streets later, she stops dead in her tracks.  Someone has taken a poster of Rapture’s Best And Brightest and defaced it.  John Egbert’s face has been erased with paint, as has Doctor Kankri Vantas’s and Feferi Peixes’s.  The other faces are circled with bright angry red: a troll Jade thinks is named Zahhak, a human with short dark hair and eye-liner she knows to be a reclusive film maker, and Doctor Roxy Lalonde.  The caption under the poster is: _Enemies Of The People._

 

 

***

 

 

Dave and Karkat have given up attempting stealth with Dirk in tow.  Karkat has used, up until this point, twelve shots of Hypnosis to prevent their lumbering companion from turning on them and tearing their heads off.  He has been counting.  Dave is silent as he scouts ahead, careful to direct them away from chessmen gangs.  Behind them the little sister in orange marches quietly in step with Dirk. 

 

At Point Prometheus, hours later, they find that Lalonde’s clinic has been torched, and everyone inside immolated.  Dave shakes his head in disgust, handing Karkat a looted vial of EVE.

 

“Typical.  The one thing to go wrong in this whole operation is the pivotal piece, like we couldn’t have just gotten our bad luck over with earlier,” Dave spits.  He’s been quiet since they found Dirk, which has Karkat worried, but there’s little he can do about it now while babysitting the world’s most dangerous parent-surrogate.

 

“Maybe she wasn’t inside,” Karkat says.  “It was some kind of holiday, wasn’t it?  Why the fuck would anywhere be open the day after a holiday?”

 

“Because it’s Rapture and fuck the United States federal government?” Dave offers.

 

Karkat gives him a perplexed-but-worried look.

 

“Really, Karkat?” Dave asks.  “You live in the country, what, some period of time on the order of years and you never bothered to learn where we get our holidays from?”

 

“Obviously not, shit-for-brains,” Karkat snaps.

 

“Maybe you’re right.  Where does this higher-educated broad live?”

 

“The fuck should I know?”

 

“Well, you’ve got some kind of weird sixth sense when it comes to sniffing things out,” Dave says.  “You found Persephone, which was supposed to be impossible, and you somehow knew I was going to be at Apollo Square.”

 

“Well, yeah, but that’s because I had help,” Karkat says.  He slaps himself in the face.  “Fuck, of course, let’s just go fucking ask Rufioh for help.  He knows practically everyone in this fucking city.”

 

Dave trudges back toward the train station.

 

“Man, ain’t nobody got time to walk these days,” he grumbles.

 

“Fucker, the trains don’t go to Neptune!” Karkat chases after him, Dirk following like an obedient dog.

 

“They get close enough.”

 

The little sister watches for a few minutes as the group pulls ahead, Calliope held close to her chest.  The little cherub often became frightened in tense situations, and it was up to her to be strong for the doll.

 

“I don’t get it,” she says.  “They don’t talk like they like each other.  What do you think, Callie?”

 

Callie smiles serenely at the world, the thread holding her left eye in place coming a little loose.

 

“Yeah, you’re right.  It’s some dumb adult thing.  I just wish daddy would snap out of it already.”

 

She skips after them, catchin up just as they board a morning train—the trains being automated from Central Computing on a different network than the metro, the fact of the revolution had not yet registered with Rapture’s bulk passenger carriers.  Just as well, as the quadfecta departs the station unmolested not a full two minutes too soon.

 

 

***

 

 

Vriska Serkey lounges with her feet up on John’s old desk, sly grin plastered over her face as usual.  In her hand she holds a telephone receiver.

 

“Helloooooooo, you’ve reached the office of Vriska Serket, pirate commandant and business tycoon!”

 

She listens, grin faltering.

 

“John?  How the hell are you still alive?  You were torpedoed by a crazy chess piece not nine hours ago!  If this is a goddamned prank, I will hunt you down and flay you alive!  I have people for that!  You do not fuck with Vriska F8KING Serket, do you hear me?”

 

Vriska narrows her eyes as she listens to her caller for a minute.

 

“Okaaaaaaaay, supposing I did 8elieve you, which I don’t!  What do you want?”

 

Her eyes widen.

 

“You are fucking crazy,” she says, throwing the receiver down.  She huffs and stalks over to the office window.  She angrily blows a lock of hair out of her eyes and surveys the lava fields, with their Byzantine maze of pipes, valves, and pumps somehow she doesn’t understand rotating the harmonic cores and generating the power that keeps Rapture alive.  Say what you want about the Beforan Foundation, or the plasmid industry, or even the oxygen farms in Arcadia: without this plant, Rapture would be dead. 

 

The door to the office opens, and Terezi walks in, assisted by a troll in a dark grey suit.  She has a cane, and a stack of papers.

 

“Any word from the White Knight?” Vriska asks, glancing over to see the intruders on her sulk. 

 

“Not yet,” Terezi replies.  “But a V3RY 1NT3R3ST1NG missive came in just a moment ago.  I had one of the operators read it out loud, and I felt it warranted your personal scrutiny.”

 

Terezi hands the papers to her assistant, who puts them on the desk.  Vriska walks over to look at them, brow furrowing.  Her face screws up in fury, and she slams the stack on the desk, causing a few stray leaflets to scatter.

 

“That 8astard!  That a8solute 8astard!” she shrieks.  One of the sheafs of paper to fly free is a poorly rendered diagram, depicting a simple three step process:

 

            Step 1: submarine carrying Vriska goes to building, named Prometheus Tower

            Step 2: submarine carrying Vriska torpedoes building

            Step 3: Vriska, Terezi, John, Jane, and troll named Horuss hold hands and cheer

 

The diagram is signed: with love, John <3.

 

Vriska taps her sharp nails against the desktop, thinking, fuming.  She picks up the phone again with a swift jerk, dialing the number for the control room.

 

“I want you to find the number that just called the desk phone in John Egbert’s office, now.”

 

Two minutes later, the phone rings.  Vriska answers it.

 

“Took you long eno—,” she starts and then freezes.  “Oh, it’s you again.  Yes, I got your passive-aggressive letter, you stutid ass!  But here’s the thing: you are going to owe me big if I do this for you, and I’m talking some serious collateral.  If this tip off is wrong, and I destroy the highest rent commercial property in the city, _the second most-known 8uilding_ , in fact!  I am going to throw you to the wolves faster than you can say prankster’s gambit.

 

“Good!  So here’s what I want from you: your gene-locked keys to Hephaestus and Central Control, hand-delivered by deer, sweet, precious Jane to my doorstep.  And I want them in my hands an hour ago.  Then I will consider this idiotic plan of yours.”

 

There’s a knock on the office door, and another troll in a dark grey suit comes in, leading Jane Crocker.  Vriska drops the phone in bewilderment.  Jane returns her nonplussed stare with a level gaze before reaching into her jacket and removing two gold-plated chips.  Vriska’s mouth drops open.  Jade lifts the chips up, winding up the throw, and Vriska hurries to scramble from behind the desk before Jane spikes them into the plush green rug, stomping on them with her sleuth sneaks repeatedly, reducing them to shards of silicon and gold foil.  Vriska, who dove for them at the last second, falls face flat at Jane’s feet.

 

“Now, you listen here,” Jane says.  “John’s not handing over anything to you until you do exactly as he has asked.  He can always have more keys machined, but you need him to get them, and he’s not coming out of hiding until I give him the all clear.”

 

Vriska groans, muttering about fucking meddling sleuths and their stupid sexy meddling tycoon brothers.  She gets up from the rug, hand snaking out suddenly to grab Jane’s ankle, yanking her off balance.  Jane is prone on the rug, Vriska standing over her with a sneer on her face.

 

“And what does he think about a notorious pirate holding his sister hostage?” she says derisively.

 

“You can hold me hostage, demand all the gold in Rapture,” Jane says through gritted teeth.  “But it won’t mean a damn thing if you don’t destroy Prometheus Tower.”

 

“Why not?  What’s so important about a stupid building?”

 

Jane snickers, which unnerves Vriska.

 

“Stop that,” Vriska instructs, but Jane simply shakes her head and continues to chortle.  “Stop that right now!  It’s getting irritating!”

 

Jane is guffawing on the floor as Vriska stomps her feet into the rug, screaming and smacking the human with a rolled up newspaper.

 

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it! Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!”

 

Suddenly, Jane is on her feet, pistol out, free hand grabbing the irate troll’s wrist.  Both Terezi’s assistant and Jane’s previous escort are quick to draw their own weapons.  Jane glances at them both, maneuvering herself so Vriska stands between them.  She glances back at Vriska.

 

“Caliborn’s still alive.”

 

“Prove it,” Vriska hisses.

 

“You know that gang, the Felt?  They worked for Caliborn before his apparent death at the hands of the Midnight Crew.  Now they work for Snowman, Slick’s rival, and also the former Black Queen."

 

“Yeah, I knew all that,” Vriska rolls her eyes.  “That doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

 

“I’m getting to it,” Jane snarls.  “A disposal company gets hired by the Felt to move a few artifacts to the Memorial Museum at Point Prometheus, including Caliborn’s sarswapagus.  The Felt uses its pull with the Midnight Crew to foster the growth of the White Knight organization out of a chessman bar into a citywide movement.  Why?  So that when Snowman pulled the trigger on John Egbert the city would fall into chaos.  Who would stand to gain most from the confusion and destruction?  Nobody…except a power-mad Cherub with a fetish for devastation and ruin.  With the city in the hands of the mob, and its defenders either dead or besieged, it would be trivial for his gang to sweep up the remains.”

 

“Interesting theory, inspector,” Vriska says.  “But you’re starting to sound like Aranea: all talk and no substance.  So the museum gets a new antique piece.  Big deal.  Where’s the smoking gun, Crocker?”

 

Jane smirks, releasing Vriska’s wrist and reaching into her trenchcoat.  Vriska steps back a pace, and the assistants move in to cover the detective.  Jane pulls a bloody golden fang from an inside pocket and tosses it at Vriska.

 

“Knocked that out of him during our fight earlier,” she says, smugly.  Vriska catches the tooth, fumbling it a little.  The blood is dried, but clearly no more than a day old.  Vriska drops it on the desk, crossing her arms.

 

“So,” she says.  “That double-crossing, underhanded little alien didn’t die.  Terezi, what do you think?”

 

“The Inspector takes pride in her honesty,” Terezi shrugs.  “If she says she knocked the teeth out of an allegedly deceased cherub in a fight, then she knocked the teeth out of an allegedly deceased cherub in a fight.  The only proper course of action is to correct these faulty allegations!”

 

“And he’s in Prometheus Tower?” Vriska asks.

 

“Yes,” Jane says.  “Where I believe also the entire Felt have relocated until the street violence has stopped.”

 

“Right.  Well, there’s no time to waste!” Vriska says, gesturing to the aides.  They put their guns away and make toward the door until Vriska jerks her hand in a stopping motion.  “But!  I don’t want you to think that I’ve forgotten our old deal.  The keys to Hephaestus in exchange for finishing John’s dirty work.  Agreed?”

 

She holds out her hand to Jane, who shakes it without hesitation.  However, she doesn’t let go when Vriska tries to release her.

 

“One more thing,” Jane says.  “We know you’ve been trying to contact the White Knight.  John himself will deliver the keys, and will personally be present when the negotiations take place.  Are we clear?”

 

“Crystal,” Vriska smiles widely.  Jane drops her hand, and the trolls jump to work.

 

 

***

 

 

Prometheus Tower stands tall above its immediate neighbors, easily making it the tallest building in Rapture, and the most iconic: its gold-plated spire is illuminated at all hours by spotlights, making it a shining needle aimed to the skies above, a promise of ascension.  The fire of the surface was brought down to the seafloor, and soon it will grow to a blaze that shall consume the whole world.  Or so the thinking went.

 

The building itself was considered a masterwork of design and beauty: luxurious apartments complemented tastefully modern commercial suites.  It was likened to the Chrysler Building in New York, or the Chicago Board of Trade Building, and from the rooftop suites one could see the edges of the city (on a clear day).

 

However, when Cherub Futuristics was on the rise, Prometheus Tower began to decline.  Businesses packed up and left, and were not replaced.  Tenants moved out, citing utilities complaints.  Cherub Futuristics, and a few other loyal patrons, held onto their offices, and even bought up abandoned ones, but inevitably the tower was closed, pending an investigation of the mechanical systems.  The investigation went off on schedule, but became held up by unforeseen complications (chief among which was the appearance of large quantities of stardust, which nobody seemed capable of removing or dealing with in any meaningful way), and in the fervor of the plasmid boom, and the Cherub Futuristics bust, any attempts to reopen Prometheus Tower apparently ground to a halt.

 

But only apparently.

 

Two submarines converge on the tower from two different sub bays of Serket’s vast smuggling empire, on the off chance that the Felt were smart enough to post a guard.  Torpedoes fire, two rounds aimed at strategic points in the building’s structure to inflict maximum damage and bring it down without causing it to fall into a neighboring skyscraper.  Concussive blasts cause nearby windows to shatter, flooding them anyway.

 

The concrete façade cracks and shatters, collapsing in on itself into a pile of rubble as the tower comes down.  The lights flicker and die, and the spire bends and breaks against the Atlantic Express station far below.  The fall throws up a cloud of dust and marine snow, blocking out the neon billboards and spotlights, casting the city in shadows.  For the first time in fifteen years, chessmen looking out the windows can’t see the ethereal glow of Rapture through the fog of sand and particles. 

 

The two submarines radio the hit back to headquarters: target destroyed.

 

If Caliborn survives, it would be too much.

 

 

***

 

 

The train shakes for a brief moment, metal creaking alarmingly as somewhere a distant boom echoes.  Karkat looks panicked at the door hatch, thinking it might implode and drown them all.  However, they arrive five minutes later at their destination.  They disembark to an empty platform, the lights having been shut off for whatever reason, casting the room in darkness.  Dirk’s faceplate provides an illuminating beam, and Karkat’s night vision returns to an extent, but the shadows remain deep and impenetrable.

 

“Karkat?” Dave calls from up ahead.

 

“What?” Karkat responds.

 

“Bring Bro over here.  You need to see this.”

 

“Come on,” Karkat says to Dirk, who follows obediently behind him in the direction of Dave’s voice.

 

They find a detailed mural.  The first thing Karkat notes is the excessive use of pastel (pink in this case), taking a minute to recognize the figure: a blonde human woman in a pink dress with a satchel, hand in hand with a pair of little sisters.  The caption beneath the mural reads: _She Created ADAM.  ADAM Destroyed Rapture._

 

“This is Doctor Lalonde,” Dave says quietly.

 

“Holy fuck.”

 

“We’d better hope Rufioh knows where she is, because if we don’t get to her soon, those chessmen will,” Dave says, voice fading as he walks to the exit.  Dirk looks after him as he goes, lighting him in bright yellow incandescence.  Dave’s shoulders are set, his stride swift but stiff.  Karkat slaps Dirk with another Hypnotize and runs after Dave.

 

The streets are littered with garbage and rubble, and largely empty.  The few humans or trolls they do see run quickly away, afraid of Dirk, or just not willing to be caught in the open.  The few chessmen they say make menacing gestures at them, but don’t dare challenge an armed Big Daddy.  In this manner, they arrive at the Fighting Nitram’s.

 

“Rufioh!” Karkat calls, throwing the door open and stepping inside.  “Rufioh, we need help again!  What the shit?”

 

Bandaged, wounded trolls sit around the room, drinking water or talking in low voices.  Candles light the room—the lights in the streets have been flickering on and off fitfully, forcing them to rely on Dirk’s helmet; evidently the power failures are district-wide.  Over by the bar, a little troll girl in a green smock sits next to Rufioh, whose wings and shoulder are bandaged.  The girl sniffles and hugs her knees close while Rufioh tries to get her to smile with a doll.  Nearby, Roxy covers another troll with a sheet.  There are several such still forms lined up by the windows.

 

“That’s her,” Dave says to Karkat.

 

Rufioh glances up at them, fear turning into relief, and then his face cracks into a smile.

 

“Hey…it’s good to see you two!” he says. 

 

Dirk enters the bar, and the smile falls off Rufioh’s face.  The trolls by the wall stop talking and stare, afraid.  Roxy looks around at the sudden change in volume, and spies Dirk.  She freezes, slowly inching her way toward her rifle.  Karkat quickly steps forward.

 

“Wait!  No, he’s hypnotized!” he says.

 

There’s a collective sigh of relief.

 

“Oh thank gog,” Roxy says, shoulders slumping.  “I thought we were all fucked.”

 

“No, we’re good,” Karkat says.  “Listen, are you Doctor Lalonde?”

 

“The one and only,” Roxy says, flipping her hair with a bloody hand.  “Ew, gross.  You can call me Roxy.  I’d shake, but as you can see I’m pretty nast right now, don’t wanna spread this filth around.”

 

Rufioh struggles from sitting to standing and comes over, grabbing Karkat’s shoulder with his good hand and looking him up and down.  Satisfied, Rufioh looks over at Dave, who shifts defensively as if expecting Rufioh to attack.  The troll smiles at him.

 

“You found him…” he says to Karkat.

 

“Yeah,” Karkat says, quietly, as if each syllable is a delicate treasure.  “I did.”

 

“I’m so happy for you…” Rufioh steps back to take them both in.  Dave has moved forward, taking Karkat’s hand almost unconsciously.  Karkat gives it a reassuring squeeze.  “That’s…that’s so great, that even despite all this tragedy, you two found each other…”

 

Roxy raises an eyebrow at them, looking in particular at Dave, who appears more and more discomfited as the seconds drag past.  Karkat takes charge of the situation again.

 

“Listen, Doctor, we need your help,” he says.  “That Protector is my moirail’s brother.”

 

“Oh, sweetie,” Roxy says, frowning sympathetically.

 

“We just.  We don’t know what to do,” Karkat muscles on.  “But we figure, you’re the city’s foremost expert on ADAM, maybe you could fix him?  We have money.”

 

Roxy sighs, cutting Karkat off with a wave.  “Hey, Ruf, where do you keep the schnapps?”

 

“Hang on, let me…”

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Roxy says.  “You are injured, and you will stay put before you damage that wing even worse.”

 

“Right…”

 

Roxy sighs and waves the bartender off.  “Listen.  What you’re asking me to do is impossible.  Mostly.”

 

“Mostly?” Dave asks.

 

“The process of making a Protector is irreversible,” Roxy says, sitting down on a barstool.  “They’re grafted into the suits and treated heavily with ADAM to incorporate them into their musculature and frame.  We can’t take that suit off without killing him.”

 

Dave takes a deep breath, Karkat’s grip on his hand becoming vice-like to keep him from stomping off to kick something.  Not that it would help if Dave wanted to teleport, but it’s the best he can do.

 

“I’m sorry,” Roxy says.  “Your brother’s stuck.”

 

“But, isn’t there something you can do?” Karkat tries.  There has to be.  They didn’t come all this way to fail now, least especially since failure will trigger a breakdown in Dave, and Karkat feels a pressing need to head that off.  “Anything at all?  Please, there’s got to be something you can do, you’re Doctor fucking Lalonde.  You invented this putrid mutagenic ADAM bullshit!”

 

“Yeah, wish I hadn’t,” Roxy says, more to herself than to Karkat.  She folds her hands, thinking.  “Maybe.  Maybe I could undo his conditioning.  Just the mental stuff, make him so that he’s a person grafted into a metal suit rather than a walking panzer.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I think so,” Roxy says.  “But you’ll need to get him back to my…the flat where I’ve been staying.  Meulin, as well.”

 

Meulin looks up when Roxy says her name, and shyly comes forward.  From the back, the girl in orange peeks around Dirk’s legs at her.  Meulin waves, eliciting a mean face from the little sister, who laughs and dodges back out of sight.

 

They bid goodbye to Rufioh, Roxy promising to return as soon as she can with help, and set out.  They don’t have far to travel, but it’s not long before Roxy is recognized by a roving band of chessmen.

 

“Hey!  There she is!  She created ADAM!”

 

“Dirk!” Karkat shouts, pulling out his gun.  “Defend us!”

 

The chessmen are armed with guns, but they are no match for the Striders working in tandem.  However, Karkat and Roxy are caught unawares by a pair of chessmen sneaking up from behind.

 

“Nowhere to run now!” one of them gloats, knocking Karkat’s gun aside and raising his wrench threateningly.

 

There’s a bang, and the chessman falls dead, Meulin’s shriek of fright drowned by a second bang.  The last chessman meets a similar demise.  Karkat runs to his gun, scooping it up and scanning around for their savior.  Jade Harley steps down from her vantage, waving to Roxy.

 

“Jade!” Roxy calls, waving back.

 

“Who the fuck was that?” Karkat asks.

 

“Girl’s a fiend with a scope,” Roxy says.  “We go way back, practically bffsies five ever.”

 

Karkat shakes his head, chalking it up to human weirdness, and waits for Jade to arrive.  Dave and Dirk return, bloodier than before, just as Jade reaches them.

 

“Hi!” she says brightly.

 

“What’s up,” Dave says, nodding.  Dirk is silent.

 

“Hi,” Karkat says.  “Who the fuck are you?”

 

“Excuse you, fuck face,” Jade says.  “My names’ Professor Jade Harley.  I’m Roxy’s friend.”

 

“Damn skippy!” Roxy says, hugging Jade.

 

“Roxy, I was so worried!  I saw your face up on so many posters, it looked like you were being targeted by hoodlums.”

 

“Aw, shoot,” Roxy says, a little sardonically.  “Look at me, I’ve got Jade all twisted up about my safety.  I’m a regular damsel in distress.”

 

“Oh, hush,” Jade says, sticking her tongue out at Roxy.  “These chessmen don’t mess around.  They are out for blood, so we need to get off the streets.”

 

“I was just about to go back to the flat to help these guys out, and see about administering the Formula.”

 

“I was just there,” Jade says, frowning.  “Your flat’s been ransacked, and I didn’t see any of the other girls.  I hope they’re okay…”

 

“Well, shit,” Roxy curses.  “There goes that idea.”

 

“Wait, I know!” Jade says, clapping her hands together.  “Arcadia’s still safe, and I’ve got all the best lab equipment in the city.  Bring Meulin, and your friends, and we’ll get right to work!”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Roxy says.

 

As they walk, Dave stays a little ways away, teleporting obnoxiously out of reach if Karkat tries to walk with him.  He throws up his hands after the third such instance, and falls in step with the little sister in orange.  They side-eye each other for a bit.

 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Karkat snarls.

 

“A big stupid meanie!”

 

Karkat looks at the girl appalled.

 

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing!  You little brat, if it weren’t for the fact that your daddy is a crazy psycho killing machine we would be having serious words about this!”

 

“Like your serious words with your more-y ale?”

 

Karkat falls silent at that.  He casts another worried look at Dave, but continues to trudge after the two scientists.  Dirk remains silent, boot stomps echoing loudly in the halls of Rapture.

 

 

***

 

 

“ _Good Morning, Rapture.  This is John Egbert speaking.  I realize many of you thought I had been killed during the attack last night on the Adonis Luxury Resort.  But let me be the first to assure you that rumors of my death have been…exaggerated.  We are in a state of emergency now.  Civil war threatens to destroy everything.  I’m not going to lie: I am largely to blame for the current state of affairs.  However, while my company has been seized by pirates, and my police methodically executed by rebels, I am still in charge of this city.  But I’m willing to step down, on the condition that the White Knight reveals himself.  I will await him at the Apollo Square, in full view of Rapture.  It is my wish that we settle this peacefully.  Thank you, and be safe.”_

John stands on the dais in Apollo Square, next to a pair of golden feet where his statue once stood.  Said statue lies in pieces behind him, but he doesn’t care.  He is loose, relaxed; he left his gun in his office, and for the first time in years is totally exposed and defenseless.  It’s a little exhilarating, he finds, and liberating.  He checks his watch to see how much time has elapsed since his radio broadcast.

 

_“John, if you go out there, they’ll tear you to pieces,” Jane told him not one hour previously.  “I’m not going to sit by and listen as my brother gets killed all over again.”_

_“Jane, if I don’t go out there, the violence won’t end,” John said.  “I am still, however ineffectual, the city’s ‘leader’.  I have to deal with this.  Besides, I’m counting on you to get me out of trouble.”_

_“What if I fail?” Jane asked.  Her voice trembled, but only a little.  Jane had always been tougher than John gave her credit for._

_“Then run.”_

 

A large contingent of chessmen arrive at Apollo Square flying red flags, dressed in red, and all armed with various household objects.  John counts at least three vacuum cleaners, one with a very dented end.  At the head of this crowd, a little white chessman in a pink hood and blue and gold dress walks.  In one hand she holds a can of paint.  She raises her free hand when they reach the foot of the dais, and the assembly stops.

 

“You’re the White Knight?” John asks, looking at her.  She nods.

 

“You’ve made your point,” he says.  “Rapture doesn’t want me, not as its leader, nor as its bodyguard.”

 

He reaches into his jacket.  Several chessmen level guns at him threateningly, but he slowly removes a pair of gold-plated chips.

 

_“Vriska,” John said, an hour ago, in his office alone with the pirate.  “I can’t actually give you the keys to Rapture.  You know that, right?”_

_Vriska scoffed, flipping her bangs out of her eyes._

_“I always knew you were a fool, John.  At least you had some integrity to go with it.  But you’re not getting out of this office alive without handing me those keys.”_

_“Why do you want them so badly?”_

_“Do you really think the White Knight is just going to accept a handwritten apology, and everything’s better?  These people will not rest until they are in the driver’s seat, and I will not be shoved into the back of this car.”_

_“Vriska, I think your metaphor’s falling apart a bit.”_

_“Shut up!  I want leverage, and if that means I have to threaten to blow up the city, then so be it.  I didn’t build this shining utopia: you did.  I just have to live here.  But I will_ live _.”_

_John sighed._

_“Alright,” he said.  “You can have one of the keys to Rapture.  But the White Knight gets the other.  If you’re going to live with my legacy, you are_ both _going to live.”_

 

“These are the keys to Hephaestus,” John says to the White Knight.  “Inserted into the correct terminal, they will give you access to any part of the facility, including entry into Rapture Central Control.  Vriska Serket has the keys to that.”

 

The White Knight narrows her eyes at John.

 

“I did that for a reason,” John says.  “When I’m gone, I don’t want anyone to be fighting over Rapture.  I want you to work together to fix the city.  You don’t have a choice: without the machinery in Central Control, Rapture dies in a week.  But without power from Hephaestus, Central Control is useless.  Either way, if you don't cooperate, the city and everyone in it dies.”

 

The chessmen shout him down.  How dare he hold them hostage like this!?  The people will not stand for threats!  The White Knight lets them rabble for a moment, and then silences them again.

 

“One more thing: Caliborn wasn’t dead,” John says.  “And he might still be alive.  We destroyed his headquarters, but this would make that the second time, and we have yet to recover a body.  If he appears again, he will keep trying to destroy Rapture.  That’s also why you need to work together with Vriska and her smugglers.”

 

The White Knight looks livid beneath her pink hood.  She winds up the throw, and hurls her paint can at John.  The corner strikes his forehead, splitting it open.  John stumbles.

 

_“Are you sure this is how you wish to proceed?” Horuss had asked, an hour earlier.  He and John stood by the VitaChamber, its silent green plasma glowing gently.  John nodded._

_“I want this thing off while I’m out there.  This is it for me: if I don’t come back, then I won’t regret it for the rest of my life.”_

_“But, but surely you can’t mean,” Horuss tried, becoming flustered._

_“Horuss, please,” John said.  “Don’t drag this out longer than it has to be.”_

 

Jane watches the crowd storm the dais through a pair of binoculars from by the remains of the bistro.  She closes her eyes when the cheer goes up, and turns and steps down from her vantage.  Horuss awaits her by the metro station, jacket draped over one muscular arm.

 

“I’m, I’m so sorry,” he says as she walks past him.

 

“Let’s just go,” Jane says, fighting to keep her voice even. 

 

She should be used to it by now: losing people.  But no matter how many times, it never seems to sink in.

 

“We’ll have to lay low for a while,” she says.  “Shall we return to the lab?”

 

“Oh, no, I don’t, I don’t think I can stand to go back,” Horuss says, his voice distorted by whatever strong emotions gripped him at the moment of John’s death.  Jane nods, and they step into the nearest open bathysphere.

 

 

***

 

 

Dave sits outside Roxy’s lab, arms crossed, waiting.  She’s been in there with Jade for seven hours, twelve minutes, and twenty-two seconds, not that Dave’s been counting.  Karkat was with him at first, but stormed off after several attempts to engage him in conversation ended in stony silence.  Dave is tired, and drained.  He feels a craving for more EVE, but resists the urge to raid the dispenser.  He has a promise to Karkat.

 

The door to the lab slides open, and Roxy comes out, removing a pair of rubber gloves and tossing them in a trashcan.  She perches herself on a chair near Dave.

 

“I’m gonna level with you,” she says.  “This was a difficult operation.  I don’t know how much of the old dude we managed to save or not, but he won’t be itching to sink his massive drill in anyone’s soft, pliant flesh anytime soon.”

 

Dave stares at her, eyebrows raised incredulously.

 

“Did you just make a sex joke at me, just after telling me my brother might be damaged beyond all repair?”

 

“Shit, my timing sucks,” Roxy laments.  “Listen.  Your bro’s gonna be fine.  Like I said, I don’t know how much he’ll remember, but he’s a person again.”

 

“See, that’s all I ask.  None of that snarky broad horseshit, just the plain gospel truth.”

 

“He won’t be able to talk,” Roxy continues as if Dave hadn’t said anything.  “I can’t do vocal reconstructive surgery, and even if I were feeling adventurous, I wouldn’t try it on an Alpha Series.  They may play nice with the other plasmids, but they do not take to being slit up.”

 

“What?”

 

“Part of becoming a Protector is you get your vocal chords altered, so you have a distinctive call the girls recognize and gravitate toward.”

 

“That’s fucked.”

 

Roxy nods.  “I did what I could,” she says.  “We’ll have to wait until he wakes up.”

 

Dave stands up and walks to the door to the park.  He needs to find Karkat all of a sudden, and not be here sitting down where he can’t do anything anyway.  Roxy clears her throat.

 

“So, what’s goin’ on with you and nubby horns?”

 

“It’s complicated,” Dave says, and absconds.

 

The park is quiet, except for the rustle of grass and the occasional tweet of birds.  Dave finds Karkat sitting on a bench, contemplating.  He takes the empty spot next to him, joining their hands and squeezing reassuringly.  Karkat looks over, eyebrow raised inquiringly.

 

“He’s fine,” Dave says.

 

“Cut the bullshit, Strider.  How bad is it?”

 

“He won’t be able to talk, not that I’ll miss that aspect of him, he did tend to go on at great length about stupidly convoluted things, like some crazy puppet master spider king,” Dave says.  Karkat smirks.

 

“But also,” Dave says.  “He’s not a psycho killer anymore.  But he might not remember anything from…”

 

Dave stops.  Karkat releases his hand so he can put his arm around Dave’s shoulder.  They sit like that for a while.

 

“Hey,” Karkat says.  “I’ve been thinking.”

 

“This won’t be good,” Dave teases.  “Karkat getting ideas always leads to terrible things.”

 

“Shut up,” Karkat says, but he’s long given up meaning it.  “I was thinking: this city doesn’t have anything for us anymore.  I lost my family; you’ve as good as lost yours.  Neither of us have any prospects.  And things aren’t getting any better.”

 

Karkat turns so he’s facing Dave, taking both of the human’s hands in his own.  He needs the contact right now, because he knows that as soon as this moment is over they’ll be right back to the anxiety and the bullshit, the fight for survival, where there is no room for tenderness or comfort or security.

 

“Let’s go back to the surface.”

 

Dave looks confused.

 

“But what about Dirk?”

 

“I get the feeling he’s not going anywhere anytime soon,” Karkat says.  “Besides which, he’s an armored as fuck killing machine, who is now a thinking person cognizant of himself and his surroundings, even if he has amnesia or paranoid schizofrenia, or whatever the fuck.  Dirk will be able to handle his own shit.  It’s you and me that I’m worried about.  And I don’t see our sordid existence getting any better down here.”

 

Dave nods.

 

“Come with me,” Karkat says.  “Please.”

 

“You’re going regardless?”

 

“Of course I’m fucking going regardless,” Karkat snaps impatiently.  “Just because I prefer your company to literally every other member of both of our species doesn’t mean I can’t live without it.”

 

Dave flinches.

 

“Still,” Karkat says.  “I can’t look after you if you don’t.  So as your moirail I am instructing you to come with me, on the grounds that you are unwell and need my assistance.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be the one to change locations based on how I move, in that case?” Dave asks.  “I’m the patient in this analogy.”

 

“No, you stupid fuck, if you’re going to take it that way, then as your primary care-giver I don’t have to do shit, because _you’re_ the one who needs _my_ help!”

 

“Okay, that might be the case if we’re going the doctor-patient route, but it sounds more like assisted-living than proper medical care, which means that I’m the one whose house you come to with cleaning detergents and spongebaths.  Because I can’t take care of myself, and the place becomes a public health hazard.”

 

“If you think I’m giving you a spongebath, you’ve got another thing coming.”

 

“Good, I prefer showers anyway.”

 

They laugh, and fall silent again.  Finally, Dave nods, and the two stand up.

 

“So, how do we get back to the surface?” Dave asks.

 

“I was thinking we could try the old Welcome Center,” Karkat says.  “There’s that bathysphere that goes straight up to the surface, and it’s likely not to get fucking blown up by Rapture’s defense grid.”

 

“Good plan.  If the sub’s not there?”

 

“Well, then we do what you do,” Karkat says.  “Wing it.  Hope for the best.  Try not to die, and then fail, but actually succeed for reasons that are basically bullshit.”

 

“We should probably tell Roxy we’re going,” Dave says.  Karkat nods—even if it’s just an exuse to see Dirk again, he doesn’t care, because they’re still leaving.

 

Back at the lab, they find Jade and Roxy discussing something in hushed tones by the unconscious form of Dirk.  His helmet is off, and Roxy has fed a pair of IV lines into terminals on his forearms.  Dave goes and stands by his feet, just staring, like he’s trying to memorize every detail.  Roxy glances over, but says nothing.  She and Jade politely leave the room, giving Dave all the space he needs.

 

“Okay,” Dave says.  “Let’s go.”

 

“That’s it?” Karkat asks.  “No final words?  No in memoriam?”

 

“That’s not how we Striders do,” Dave says.  “We use our words when absolutely necessary, and rely on our natural cool affinity to handle the nonverbal stuff.  He got the message, if he was even a little bit awake.”

 

They find Roxy in a different section of lab with Meulin and the little sister in orange.  Meulin is looking sick.

 

“The Formula has that side effect, sweetie, but you’re doing fine,” Roxy says.  Meulin simply turns an unhealthy shade of green, to Karkat’s eye.  She jerks once, and then wretches all over the floor.  Green mucous slips out, followed by a shriveled, very large slug about the length of Dave’s forearm.  It twitches once, teeth snapping, and then goes still.  Roxy picks it up with foreceps and drops it in a glass jar before stepping over the mess to check Meulin’s throat and eyes.

 

“That,” Dave says, horrified.  “Has to have been the single grossest thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“You did a good job, Meulin,” Roxy is saying.  “But it’s time for good girls to go napping, okay?”

 

Meulin nods.

 

“Roxy,” Dave says.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We’re leaving.”

 

Roxy nods, waving the two of them off as she coaxes the little sister in orange up onto the table.

 

“Be safe!” she calls after them.

 

 

***

 

 

Jake English comes to supremely comfortable.  He can’t immediately open his eyes, but he feels safe, wrapped up in the warm embrace of sedatives and bedsheets.  He thinks to stretch his limbs, but they are so heavy with sleep that he can’t shift them.  The cold lines of steel at his wrists certainly don't help matters.

 

Jake’s eyes snap open.  His mouth is bound, and his wrists and feet are restrained.  Nearby, a tall troll, glowing pale white, draws up a syringe of some red fluid.  She approaches him, but pauses when she sees he’s awake.

 

“Welcome back, Subject Sigma,” she says evenly.

 

Jake shakes his head, eyes popping madly as he tries to break free, but the drugs that kept him asleep still affect him, and he can’t manage more than weak motion.  Kanaya tuts.

 

“Now, now, that’s not the attitude to take.  You ought to feel privileged that you will become such an important member of the Family.  Not that you will probably remember this conversation after subsequent treatments.”

 

She inserts the needle into Jake’s arm, and depresses the plunger.

 

“Now, sleep, Sigma.  You have many trials ahead.”

 

 

***

 

 

The Kashmir Restaurant is slowly filling with water.  Somehow, the microcracks in the glass dome of the solar haven’t given way to the immense pressure of the sea, except to dribble a steady stream of water onto the marble floor.  Karkat and Dave exchange glances when they see this, standing by the door to the Footlight.

 

“Let’s not stick around.”

 

“Agreed.  Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

 

From behind them, they hear running footsteps.  Dave is quicker on the draw, whipping out his pistol and pointing it down the corridor as three splicers round the far corner.  One of them carries a grenade box.

 

“That’s Vantas!” one of them, a human, shouts.  “That’s the fucker right there!”

 

Dave shoots, missing, but causing two of the splicers to run for cover.  The third lobs a grenade up the corridor.

 

“Shit,” Dave curses, slamming the doors to the Kashmir shut.  The grenade taps against them, exploding.  Ceiling bits fall in, and the doors are blown inward, throwing Dave.  Karkat is peppered with splinters of wood, swearing as he tries to cover his face.  Dave rolls, and gets to his feet, shirt smoking.  However, the door is plugged by rubble.

 

“You still alive?” the splicer calls.  “‘cuz if ya are, we’re comin’ for you!”

 

Dave grabs Karkat’s arm, and pulls him away from the doors to the floor.  The carpet is soaking, and their footsteps squish in the expensive material.  Upstairs, they locate the second-floor entrance, coming out into a multi-floor atrium under a glass ceiling.

 

“Elevators,” Karkat says, pointing.

 

Dave hits the button, and the cage doors close before they descend.  They drift past enormous banners in red, green, and blue embroidered with colossal gold letters: _Liberty, Ascendancy, Creativity, Industry_.  The elevator comes to a stop at the ground floor, cage sliding open.  They step out, steps echoing on the marble floor, and walk quickly to the exit.  Down the stairs is an airlock, and they pause for a moment to look out one of the tall windows at the Welcome Center.

 

“So that’s it?” Dave asks.  Down a long glass tunnel stands a relatively squat building by Rapture standards, bay windows looking out no doubt to picturesque vistas of the city from below.  Karkat nods.

 

“That’s were Kankri and I came when we emigrated.  I still remember the place.  It was the most beautiful building I’d ever seen, and I’d thought to myself, ‘this is it.  Finally, I can fucking make something of myself, here, in Rapture.’  Ha.  What a fucking dumbass past me was.”

 

“Alright then,” Dave steps away from the window.  “Let’s get going.”

 

They turn to leave when the lights in the airlock shut off.  They hear running footsteps, and see the sparks of a metal pipe being dragged along the floor.  The emergency lights turn on over the doors, and Karkat curses up a storm trying to find his gun.

 

Dave’s arm thrums with blue lightning, the pulses reaching up his neck to his jawline.  He slowly draws his sword, sparks dancing up the blad to the tip, jumping to the ground.  He hears a triumphant wheeze to his right, and muffled feet on rug, and cuts, discharging a bolt of lightning as he does.  There’s a pained cry, and the smell of burning flesh, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.  Dave flicks the blood off his sword and sheathes it.

 

“Karkat, move,” he says quietly.  Karkat jumps, and pads over to the exit, which slides open obligingly.  In the glare of the city, he is visible, and his eyes take a second to adjust to the dun glow.  Dave pushes him forward, walking backwards up the tunnel and keeping his sword out as a threat to any pursuing splicers.

 

“We’re coming for you, Vantas!” the shout sounds from inside the airlock.  Karkat glances back, and breaks into a run as a splicer with a machine gun comes into the tunnel.  The gun’s rattling fire echoes around him, bullets ricochet off the sides, and suddenly Karkat’s right arm and leg are on fire.  He stumbles and falls to the ground, cursing.  He hears a snap, and Dave is there, dragging him to his feet.  The machine gun fire has stopped quite suddenly.

 

“Shit, Karkat come on, give me your hand,” Dave says.

 

Karkat limps along with Dave, the Welcome Center coming slowly nearer.  Karkat can hear the clatter of metal on glass behind them, and tries to turn to see what new catastrophe is about to strike.  Dave jerks him forward, and then the tunnel vibrates as two grenades burst behind them.  The glass shudders, and cracks, and then implodes.  A wave of seawater surges into the tunnel, knocking the retreating figures over and washing them into the Welcome Center’s security door.  Dave bangs against it with his fists, trying to force it open, but it refuses to budge.  Karkat notices a nearby switch, sparking.

 

“Dave!  The door switch!”

 

Dave steps back, water sloshing at his waist, and shocks the switch.  The door opens, spilling seawater onto the wooden floor of the Welcome Center.  Karkat tumbles in, coming to a stop at a stone pillar as the door shuts behind them, locking.  Dave helps him to his feet.

 

“Karkat, are you okay?”

 

Karkat is bleeding from two bullet wounds in his leg, and one by his elbow.  He hisses and Dave removes his jacket, tearing strips out of it to staunch the flow.  Dave’s shirt is plastered to his skin, and Karkat can see the electric blue impulses as they travel from his heart to his arm.

 

“Fuck, I don’t know what to do,” Dave says.  “Can you still walk?”

 

“No, I can’t fucking walk,” Karkat snarls.  “How close are we to the metro station?”

 

“It’s just down the stairs.  Come on.”

 

Karkat leans on Dave as the human helps him down a flight of wooden stairs, each step sending torturous stabs up his injured leg.  The metro station is like any other: benches lined up under timetables, garbage cans, vending machines, advertisements.  There are only two bathysphere ports, however, and one bathysphere currently docked.

 

Karkat’s ears prick.

 

“Dave,” he whispers.  “Dave, stop.  There’s something in here with us.”

 

Dave stops, and listens.  The drip of seawater, the hum of incandescent lamps.  He gently lowers Karkat to the ground.  The rustle of fabric, the click of metal on stone.

 

There’s a snap, and Dave vanishes, leaving Karkat sitting prone on the floor.  Karkat’s adrenalin is pumping, and he drags himself up to the bathysphere quay, eyes on the shadows for the first sign of movement.  Softly, a cracked voice drifts down to Karkat’s ear.

 

“Is it someone new?”

 

Karkat’s bloodpusher pumps rapidly, and he crawls more quickly to the safety of the sub.  A crumble of masonry, a splash of plaster in the water.  Karkat realizes he doesn’t have his gun anymore—it must’ve washed away when the tunnel collapsed.

 

“I will wrap you in a sheet.”

 

A dark shape, like a woman, steps onto the quay.  Karkat can barely make out twisted features, a misshapen grin, filthy green dress.  She approaches him slowly, and he knows that even if he were to reach the sub he would not be able to close the hatch in time to save himself.  A low whimper rises from his throat, but the splicer is quieter still as she places each foot deliberately closer.

 

She shifts her weight, and Karkat cringes.  There’s a snap, and a wet splattering sound, and a gasp.  With a loud splash, the splicer topples off the quay, Dave standing there cast in shadow, sword dripping.  Karkat watches as Dave lifts the sword up to his mouth and licks a dollop of blood off the tip.

 

“Tastes like nectar,” he says.

 

“Dave…” Karkat is terrified.

 

“You’re like a little flower, full of nectar,” Dave stalks forward to Karkat, who shoves himself back until he’s at the open hatch.  Dave lowers his face down to be level with Karkat’s, and then bursts out laughing.  With a clatter, he drops his sword and sits back on the quay, laughing.  Karkat nearly shits himself in anger.

 

“You lusus fucking chum guzzler!” Karkat bellows.  “You pasty assed, discomfiting slurry of nook discharge!  What the fuck!  Do you have any fucking clue how terrified I was?  I am going to shove my fist down your protein chute and rip your bloodpusher out with my bare hands so you can experience just one fucking instance of heart-stopping terror I was going through!  Every cell in your stupid, pan-shrivelingly deficient body will weep cytoplasmic tears of anguish at the amount of suffering I am going to inflict on you, you grab-assing, sweaty taint gargling, shame-globe choking fuck bucket!”

 

Karkat’s tirade continues, but for the sake of the censors we will omit the rest.  Dave’s laughter subsides to a hiccupping chuckle, which he finds terribly ironic, an observation that only prolongs Karkat’s conniption.  The troll has to stop a few times due to hyperventilating, but such reprieves are brief, and then Dave becomes at turns bored and amazed at his companion’s stamina.  Finally, he stands up.

 

“—and then, when you are old and senile, and require nurses to wipe your shit-stained ass and spoon-feed you lukewarm health pastes because your teeth did the dignified thing and rotted out long ago, then I will fucking wreck your shit with a bent metal rake!”

 

“Are you done?” Dave asks as Karkat pauses to take a breath.

 

“Yeah,” Karkat says, panting.  “And fuck you.”

 

“Okay, then let’s get gone.”

 

Dave picks Karkat up bridal style and sets him on the bench inside, shutting the hatch and pulling the lever.  He sits next to Karkat as the bathysphere sinks, retreating from the Welcome Center.  He snickers, and points to the neon signs they pass as they go.

 

“Now ain’t that one for the irony books,” he says.

 

 _All Good Things Of This Earth Flow Into The City_.

 

“Huh, right,” Karkat says.  “Please tell me this recent irony kick isn’t going to become a thing.”

 

Dave shrugs, wiping bloody hands ineffectually on his pants, and wrapping his fingers up in Karkat’s.  Buildings slip by, billboards and lights glaring back at them through the murk, but the sub rises higher and higher as they go.  They pass Fleet Hall, and Bella Mia’s, and the Pharoah’s Fortune casino.  The Rapture Tribune rises up out of the dark, and then fades past into blackness. At the city’s edge, they sail between a pair of winges statues, arms raised up to the sky in a move to ascendance.  Then they’re alone, Rapture at their backs.

 

“What do you think we’ll find on the surface?” Karkat asks.

 

“No fucking clue,” Dave says.  “More bullshit, probably.”

 

“Wouldn’t be fucking surprised.”

 

The sub turns, and they are leaning back against the bench as the sea gets lighter, and the bathysphere rises faster.  The machine groans and creaks, and Karkat’s ears pop.  They can see a school of fish dart past and around them, flashing silver.  There’s a cracking sound, and Karkat glances around in alarm, trying to find the source.  Dave squeezes his hand tightly.

 

“Almost there,” he repeats over and over.  Karkat closes his eyes, unwilling to watch.

 

With a crash, the bathysphere surfaces, bobbing on the waves.  Dave and Karkat are thrown off the bench, Karkat yelping in pain as his weight comes down on his leg.  He and Dave extricate themselves, and gather around the hatch window to look.

 

It’s raining, but the sun is rising over the sea.  A little ways away, through the morning fog, they can see a lighthouse.  At its peak, a shining gold statue of a winged man raises his arms up, holding a lamp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Rise, Rapture, Rise.
> 
> In keeping with BioShock precedent, there will be three Epilogues: one Good, one Neutral, and one Evil.
> 
> Stay tuned. Or don't, you probably don't need to read them.


	18. La Mer

**EPILOGUE: FAMILY**

 

_Atlantic Coast – 1970_

The sun sets over the pines, throwing long shadows across the beach, full of pebbles and seashells.  Off to the north, a lighthouse stands on a cape, its lamp sweeping out over the darkening waves.  The sky is suffused with pink and orange, but clouds sit to the west, promising a storm.  A young woman of eighteen stands at the quickening tideline, feet bare, dried sand running up her ankles.  She wears an orange dress, and her dark brown hair is held back with a matching headband.  In a satchel slung over her shoulder, the worn green head of a doll pokes out, smiling at the coming stars.

 

Footsteps.  She doesn’t turn to meet the inquiring gaze of the troll that joins her vigil.

 

“He’ll be here,” she says.

 

“You say that every year,” Karkat sighs.  “Elle, you need to come back in before you make yourself sick.”

 

The woman, Elle, shrugs off Karkat’s hand as he moves to touch her shoulder.

 

“He’ll come this time, I know it,” she says, hands curling into fists.

 

Karkat sighs.  “Just don’t be out until dawn again, okay?”

 

He walks back up the beach, to where his moirail waits with the car.  He smiles when he sees Dave, lounging in a red convertible Mustang, feet kicked up, rock tunes playing quietly on the radio.  Karkat opens the passenger side door and pulls a blanket out of the back.  
  
“Couldn’t convince her?” Dave asks.

 

“Of course not,” Karkat says.  “She’s as fucking stubborn as you are.”

 

“I claim full responsibility for our totally rad adopted niece’s behavior.”

 

They fall silent, watching the waves break until night falls.  Elle stands there, tide up to her knees, watching.

 

“How are the hallucinations?” Karkat asks.

 

“I still have nightmares,” Dave says.  “People dying, being crushed beneath the ocean, covered in blood.  But I haven’t seen a ghost since we moved here and found Elle.”

 

Elle shivers, rubbing her bare arms as the breeze picks up.  The clouds to the west move south, staving off their fury for another day.  She peers into the night, trying to remember where the golden towers of her dreams lie.  Somewhere.  Her recollection of her life before Dave and Karkat is muddled, a blissful smear of joy and beauty, preceded by a wall of nothing.  Try as she might, she can’t penetrate it, can’t find whatever she had been before her time in the shining halls of Rapture, where angels danced playfully.  Talking to Dave, she knows that these memories aren’t real.

 

But she has to hope.

 

At two in the morning, Dave jerks twice in his sleep, waking up with a shout and slamming his fist into the car horn.  Karkat, who was dozing nearby, jumps, hand automatically going for a gun that isn’t there.  Dave shakes, eyes darting around in the dark.  Karkat pulls him close, throwing the blanket around them both.

 

“I heard…I saw…” Dave tries.

 

“Shh,” Karkat says.  “It’s okay, I’m here.  You’re safe.  Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

 

“Not…me…” Dave says.  “Elle.  Where’s Elle?”

 

Karkat reaches over and flicks on the headlights.  Elle stands on the shore, her position unchanged.  Dave lets out a breath, and collapses back into Karkat.

 

“I had a dream where she was gone,” he says.  “The sea came and swallowed her up, and we had to go back down to that place to find her.”

 

Karkat says nothing, ears pricked.  Something isn’t right.

 

“Dave, do you hear that?” he asks.

 

Crashing waves.  Rustling trees.  A low groan like a foghorn.  Karkat sits up when Elle suddenly stiffens.

 

“Dave, look!” he says.

 

From beneath the breakers, a yellow light.

 

“Father!” Elle breathes.

 

A bronze helmet emerges from the water, headlamp casting a searching beam onto the shore.  The tide pulls back, revealing the armored suit of an Alpha Series.  His hand swings forward as he walks, and in the headlights from the car, if one’s eyes can pick up the detail, a silver kappa glints.

  
  
**EPILOGUE: LAMENT**

 

Horuss Zahhak stands outside the Atlantic Express station in the Drop, eyes downcast out of respect.  Before him, a key-shaped vent, surrounded by pink and blue candles forming a small shrine.  A filthy white tablecloth is spread on the ground at his feet, on which lies the reposed body of Jane Crocker. 

 

“The sister of the founder shall nourish the people,” he says, reading the hastily scrawled message on the wall over the vent.  Handprints of the faithful complete the mural.  It’s too much for Horuss.  He picks up Jane’s body and carries it with him to the waiting Atlantic Express train. 

 

The train stops at the farmer’s market, and Horuss disembarks with his burden.  The market is heavily fortified, and as he steps out dozens of guns train on him.  After a moment, he is recognized, and the order called to let him through.  A barricade is removed, and he walks through to be met by Rufioh.

 

“Welcome back, guy…” Rufioh says, clapping Horuss’s shoulder.

 

“Has everything been well in my absence?”

 

“Yeah…We had one rush on the metro station, and Serket’s goons keep threatening to cut our power, but that ain’t no surprise…”

 

Rufioh looks sadly at Jane.

 

“Where was she…?”

 

“In the Drop,” Horuss says bitterly.  “They were draining her body slowly of ADAM to feed their mad designs.”

 

Rufioh leads Horuss into Arcadia.  The park is much the same as it was during Rapture’s height, with the addition of a shantytown for trolls and humans fleeing the persecution of the White Knight, or who refused to throw in with Serket.  Roxy and Jade are working in a garden growing pumpkins adjoined to the rolling hills.

 

“Horuss!  Rufioh!” Jade calls when she sees them.  “You’re back!”

 

“Yes, we have returned, but not with triumph,” Horuss replies.  He lowers Jane to the ground.  Jade frowns when she sees.

 

“Oh no, poor Jane,” she says.

 

“Where did you find her?” Roxy asks.

 

“The Drop…” Rufioh replies.

 

“Oh.  I see,” Roxy says.  She puts her tools down.  “Well, good thing we picked the grave out already, huh.”

 

“That’s not funny, Roxy,” Jade says.

 

“I ain’t laughing, Harley,” Roxy snaps.  “Jane and I were p-tight at the end, okay?”

 

Horuss picks Jane back up, and the four make their way to the waterfall grotto.  The water wheels continue spinning, rivulets cascading down into the shallow pool.  A plot of dirt has been picked out near the rosebed, one of many in this room.  Working between them, Horuss and Rufioh bury Jane quickly and methodically.  It’s anti-climactic how little time passes, and Roxy and Jade are at a loss what to say.

 

“Shit, I feel like we need some kind of eulogy,” Roxy says.

 

“She was a good sleuth,” Jade says.

 

“She was so brave, and smart…” Rufioh says.

 

“Her dedication to truth and integrity was an inspiration,” Horuss adds.  “John always held her in the highest esteem, and worked tirelessly to protect her from harm.”

 

“Goodbye, Janey,” Roxy says.  “Wish I’d met you a lot earlier.”

 

One by one, they each go over to the rose garden and pluck a bud to carry back to the grave.  They stand in silent regard for their fallen companion, her only requiem the lapping of the waterfall, and a distant phonograph.

 

_…ou’ll find your share_

_Of memories there_

_So Dream_

_When the day is through_

_Dream_

_And they might come true_

_Things_

_Never are as bad as they seem_

_So Dream, Dream, Dream_

 

  
**EPILOGUE: DARKNESS**

 

In a quiet, hidden lab, far from the unbeaten paths of Rapture, a glass tube stands.  At the top and bottom, copper leads connect it to a fantastically complex device, currently off.  Dust has collected in a thick layer on its terminal.

 

From the darkness, a quiet honk.

 

A purple clown, followed by a black-clad mime, wanders into the lab.  The mime approaches the machine, wiping dust off the buttons, and activates it.  Lights blink on, indicating the terminal is receiving power.  The tube remains empty.

 

From the lab, a loud honk.

 

The mime presses a few more buttons, and a mechanical voice emits from a set of speakers by his hand.

 

_“Calibrating: please insert genetically viable sample.”_

 

The clown withdraws a sharp, golden tooth from inside his codpiece with a slight wince, dropping it into the waiting slot.  The machine hermetically seals, and a moment later the voice speaks again.

 

_“Calibrating: gene sample accepted.  You may now activate the chamber.”_

 

The mime throws a switch.  Green plasma arcs through the glass tube, lighting the lab.  A dark shape forms inside it, growing larger, acquiring a proper shape.  A huge, muscular frame gathers from nothing, broad shoulders, thick arms and legs, bulging torso.  There’s a flash, and the doors to the tube slide open, and Caliborn steps back into Rapture.

 

The clown stares vacantly ahead.

 

From the cherub, “honk.”

 

The mime’s expression is unreadable.

 

From the cherub, “HONK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lonely film projector in a half-flooded theater continues to spin as the reel runs out. A model horse sits next to it, white with a pink mane and a heart on its flank. Lying against the table on which the projector sits, a corpse, many years old. It wears a grubby, tailored suit, and clutches an AudioVox in its hand. The AudioVox plays its tape, skipping back to repeat one line until the ribbon wears out.
> 
> "I regret nothing."

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from Dream by the Pied Pipers.


End file.
